ill 


( 


l. 


#^ 


.:f 


V 


m 


if'-.'.-'-'V  /^- 


mm 


^^ifn. 


_!_-  7  -4-^ 


.i-?m/y- 


LIBRARY 

NivgRs(Ty  ot 


"  sir,  you  are  mocking  me,  you  shall  marry  the  girl. — Kenklm  Chillingly. 


KENELM    CHILLINGLY: 


HIS 


ADVENTURES   AND    OPINIONS. 


BY 


^^      LOJlDo  LITTON  /  ^  y 

(SIR   EDWARD^BULWER-LYTTON,    BART) 


CHICAGO   AND   NEW  YORK  : 

BELFOKD,  CLARKE   &   COIMPANY, 
Publishers. 


TROW'9 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY, 

NEW  YORK. 


KENELM    CHILLINGLY. 


BOOK   FIRST. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Sir  Peter  Chillingly,  of  Exmundham,  Baronet,  F.R.S. 
and  F.A.S.,  was  the  representative  of  an  ancient  family,  and 
a  landed  proprietor  of  some  importance.  He  had  married 
young,  not  from  any  ardent  inclination  for  the  connubial 
state,  but  in  compliance  with  the  request  of  his  parents. 
They  took  the  pains  to  select  his  bride  ;  and  if  they  might 
have  chosen  better  they  might  have  chosen  worse,  which 
is  more  than  can  be  said  for  many  men  who  choose  wives 
for  themselves.  Miss  Caroline  Brotherton  was  in  all  re- 
spects a  suitable  connection.  She  had  a  pretty  fortune, 
which  was  of  much  use  in  buying  a  couple  of  farms,  long 
desiderated  by  the  Chillinglys  as  necessary  for  the  round- 
ing of  their  property  into  a  ring-fence.  She  was  highly 
connected,  and  brought  into  the  county  that  experience 
of  fashionable  life  acquired  by  a  young  lady  Avho  has 
attended  a  course  of  balls  for  three  seasons,  and  gone  out 
in  matrimonial  honors, with  credit  to  herself  and  her  chaperon. 
She  was  handsome  enough  to  satisfy  a  husband's  pride,  but 
not  so  handsome  as  to  keep  perpetually  on  the  qui  vive  a 
husband's  jealousy.  vShe  was  considered  highly  accom- 
plished ;  that  is,  she  played  upon  the  pianoforte  so  that  any 
musician  would  say  she  "was  very  well  taught;"  but  no 
musician  would  go  out  of  his  way  to  hear  her  a  second  time. 
Slie  painted  in  water-colors — well  enough  to  amuse  herself. 
She  knew  French  and  Italian  with  an  elegance  so  lady-like, 
that,  without  having  read  more  than  selected  extracts  from 
authors  in  those  languages,  she  spoke  them  both  with  an 


4  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

accent  more  correct  than  wc  have  any  reason  to  attribute 
to  Rousseau  or  Arioslo.  What  else  a  young  lady  may 
acquire  in  order  to  be  styled  higlily  accomplished  I  do  not 
pretend  to  know,  but  I  am  sure  that  the  young  lady  in 
question  fulfilled  that  requirement  in  the  opinion  of  the 
best  masters.  It  was  not  only  an  eligible  match  for  Sir 
Peter  Chillingly, — it  was  a  brilliant  match.  It  was  also  a 
very  unexceptionable  match  for  Miss  Caroline  Brotherton. 
This  excellent  couple  got  on  together  as  most  excellent 
'couples  do.  A  short  time  after  marriage,  Sir  Peter,  by  the 
death  of  his  parents— who,  having  married  their  heir,  had 
nothing  left  in  life  worth  the  trouble  of  living  for- — succeeded 
to  the  iiereditary  estates  ;  he  lived  for  nine  months  of  the 
year  at  Exmundham,  going  to  town  for  the  other  three 
months.  Lady  Chillingly  and  himself  were  both  very  glad 
to  go  to  town,  being  bored  at  Exmxmdham  ;  and  vcrv  glad 
to  go  back  to  Exmundham,  being  bored  in  town.  With  one 
exception  it  was  an  exceedingly  happy  marriage,  as  mar- 
riages go.  Lady  Chillingly  had  her  way  in  small  things; 
Sir  Peter  his  way  in  great.  vSmall  things  happen  every  day,, 
great  things  once  in  three  years.  Once  in  three  years  Lady 
Chillingly  gave  way  to  Sir  Peter  ;  households  so  managed 
go  on  regularly.  The  exception  to  their  connul)ial  happi- 
ness was,  after  all,  but  of  a  negative  description.  Their 
affection  was  such  that  they  sighed  for  a  pledge  of  it ;  four- 
teen years  had  he  and  Lady  Chillingly  remained  unvisited 
by  the  little  stranger. 

Now,  in  default  of  male  issue,  Sir  Peter's  estates  passed 
to  a  distant  cousin  as  heir-at-law  ;  and  during  tlie  last  four 
years  this  heir-at-law  had  evinced  his  belief  that,  practically 
speaking,  he  was  already  heir-apparent  ;  and  (though  vSir 
Peter  was  a  much  younger  man  than  himself,  and  as  healthy 
as  any  man  well  can  be)  had  made  his  expectations  of  a 
speedy  succession  unpleasantly  conspicuous.  He  had  re- 
fused his  consent  to  a  small  exchange  of  lands  with  a  neigh- 
boring squire,  by  which  Sir  Peter  would  have  obtained 
some  good  arable  land  for  an  outlying  luiprofitable  wxK'd 
that  produced  nothing  but  fagots  and  rabbits,  with  the  blunt 
declaration  that  he,  the  heir-at-law,  was  fond  of  rabbit- 
shooting,  and  that  the  wood  would  be  convenient  to  him 
next  season  if  he  came  into  the  property  by  that  time, 
which  he  very  possibly  might.  He  disputed  Sir  Peter's 
right  to  make  his  customary  fall  of  timber,  and  had  even 
threatened  him  with  a  bill    in   Chancery  on   that    subject. 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  5 

In  short,  tliis  heir-at-law  was  exactly  one  of  those  persons 
to  spite  whom  a  landed  proprietor  would,  if  single,  marry 
at  the  age  of  eighty  in  the  hope  of  a  family. 

Nor  was  it  only  on  account  of  his  very  natural  wish  to 
frustrate  the  expectations  of  this  unamiable  relation  that 
Sir  Peter  Chillingly  lamented  the  absence  of  the  little 
stranger.  Although  belonging  to  that  class  of  country 
gentlemen  to  whom  certain  political  reasoners  deny  the  in- 
telligence vouchsafed  to  other  members  of  the  community, 
Sir  Peter  was  not  without  a  considerable  degree  of  book- 
learning,  and  a  great  taste  for  speculative  philosophy. 
He  sighed  for  a  legitimate  inheritor  to  the  stores  of  his 
erudition,  and,  being  a  very  benevolent  man,  for  a  more 
active  and  useful  dispenser  of  those  benefits  to  the  human 
race  which  philosophers  confer  by  striking  hard  against 
each  other  ;  just  as,  how  full  soever  of  sparks  a  flint  may  be, 
they  might  lurk  concealed  in  the  flint  till  doomsday,  if  the 
flint  were  not  hit  by  the  steel.  Sir  Peter,  in  short,  longed 
for  a  son  amply  endowed  with  the  combative  quality,  in 
which  he  himself  was  deficient,  but  which  is  the  first  essen- 
tial to  all  seekers  after  renown,  and  especially  to  benevolent 
philosophers. 

Under  these  circumstances  one  may  well  conceive  the 
joy  that  filled  the  household  of  Exmundham  and  extended 
to  all  the  tenantry  on  that  venerable  estate,  by  whom  the 
present  possessor  was  much  beloved,  and  the  prospect  of 
an  heir-at-law  with  a  special  eye  to  the  preservation  of  rab- 
bits much  detested,  when  the  medical  attendant  of  the 
Chillinglys  declared  that  "her  ladyship  was  in  an  interest- 
ing way  ;"  and  to  what  height  that  joy  culminated  when,  in 
due  course  of  time,  a  male  baby  Avas  safely  enthroned  in 
his  cradle.  To  that  cradle  Sir  Peter  was  summoned.  Pic 
entered  the  room  with  a  lively  bound  and  a  radiant  counte- 
nance :  he  quitted  it  with  a  musing  step  and  an  overclouded 
brow. 

Yet  the  baby  was  no  monster.  It  did  not  come  into  the 
world  with  two  heads,  as  some  babies  are  said  to  have  done  ; 
it  was  formed  as  babies  are  in  general — was  on  the  whole  a 
thriving  baby,  a  fine  baby.  Nevertheless,  its  aspect  awed 
the  father  as  already  it  had  awed  the  nurse.  The  creature 
looked  so  unutterably  solemn.  It  fixed  its  eyes  upon  Sir 
Peter  with  a  melancholy  reproachful  stare  ;  its  lips  were 
compressed  and  drawn  downward,  as  if  discontentedly 
meditating  its  future   destinies.     The   nurse  declared  in  a 


6  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

frightened  whisper  tliat  it  had  uttered  no  cry  on  facing  the 
ight.  It  had  taken  possession  of  its  cradle  in  all  the  dignity 
of  silent  sorrow.  A  more  saddened  and  a  more  thoughtful 
countenance  a  human  being  could  not  exhibit  if  he  were 
leaving  the  world  instead  of  entering  it. 

"  Hem  !  "  said  Sir  Peter  to  himself  on  regaining  the  soli- 
tude of  his  library  ;  "a  philosopher  who  contributes  a  new 
inhabitant  to  this  vale  of  tears  takes  upon  himself  very 
anxious  responsibilities " 

At  that  moment  the  joy-bells  rang  out  from  the  neigh- 
boring church  tower,  the  summer  sun  shone  into  the  win- 
dows, the  bees  hummed  among  the  flowers  on  the  lawn  ; 
Sir  Peter  roused  himself  and  looked  forth.  "  After  all," 
said  he,  cheerily,  "  the  vale  of  tears  is  not  without  a  smile." 


CHAPTER  H. 

A  FAMILY  council  was  held  at  Exmundham  Hall  to  de- 
liberate on  the  name  by  which  this  remarkable  infant 
should  be  admitted  into  the  Christian  comnuuiity.  The 
junior  branches  of  that  ancient  house  consisted,  first,  of  the 
obnoxious  heir-at-law — a  Scotch  branch — named  Chillingly 
Gordon.  He  was  the  widowed  father  of  one  son,  now  of  the 
age  of  three,  and  hap[)ily  unconscious  of  the  injury  inflicted 
on  his  future  prospects  by  the  advent  of  the  new-born  ; 
which  could  not  be  truthfully  said  of  his  Caledonian  father. 
Mr.  Chillingly  Gordon  was  one  of  those  men  who  get  on  in 
the  world  without  our  being  able  to  discover  why.  His 
parents  died  in  his  infancy,  and  left  him  nothing;  but  the 
family  interest  procured  him  an  admission  into  the  Charter 
House  School,  at  which  illustrious  academy  he  obtained  no 
remarkable  distinction.  Nevertheless,  as  soon  as  he  left  it 
the  state  took  him  under  its  special  care,  and  appointed 
him  to  a  clerkship  in  a  public  office.  From  that  moment 
he  continued  to  get  on  in  the  world,  and  was  now  a  com- 
missioner of  customs,  with  a  salary  of  ^1500  a  year.  As 
soon  as  he  had  been  thus  enabled  to  maintain  a  wife,  he 
selected  a  wife  who  assisted  to  maintain  himself.  She  was 
an  Irish  peer's  widow,  with  a  jointure  of  _^2ooo  a  year. 

A  few  months  after   his    marriage.  Chillingly    Gordon 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  7 

effected  insurances  on  his  wife's  life,  so  as  to  secure  himself 
an  annuity  of  ^1000  a  year  in  case  of  her  decease.  As  she 
appeared  to  be  a  fine  healthy  woman,  some  years  younger 
than  her  husband,  the  deduction  from  his  income  effected 
by  the  annual  payments  for  the  insurance  seemed  an  over- 
sacrifice  of  present  enjoyment  to  future  contingencies.  The 
result  bore  witness  to  his  reputation  for  sagacity,  as  the  lady 
died  in  the  secood  year  of  their  wedding,  a  few  months  after 
the  birth  of  her  only  child,  and  of  a  heart-disease  which  had 
been  latent  to  the  doctors,  but  which,  no  doubt,  Gordon  had 
affectionately  discovered  before  he  had  insured  a  life  too  valu- 
able not  to  need  some  compensation  for  its  loss.  He  was 
now,  then,  in  the  possession  of  ^2500  a  year,  and  was  there- 
fore very  well  off,  in  the  pecuniary  sense  of  the  phrase.  He 
had,  moreover,  acquired  a  reputation  which  gave  him  a  social 
rank  beyond  that  accorded  to  him  by  a  discerning  state.  He 
was  considered  a  man  of  solid  judgment,  and  his  opinion 
upon  all  matters,  private  and  public,  carried  weight.  The 
opinion  itself,  critically  examined,  was  not  worth  much,  but 
the  way  he  announced  it  was  imposing.  Mr.  Fox  said  that 
"  No  one  ever  was  so  wise  as  Lord  ThurloAv  looked."  Lord 
Thurlow  could  not  have  looked  wiser  than  Mr.  Chillingly 
Gordon.  He  had  a  square  jaw  and  large  red  bushy  eye- 
brows, which  he  lowered  down  with  great  effect  when  he 
delivered  judgment.  He  had  another  advantage  for  acquir- 
ing grave  reputation.  He  was  a  very  unpleasant  man.  He 
could  be  rude  if  you  contradicted  him  ;  and  as  few  persons 
wish  to  provoke  rudeness,  so  he  was  seldom  contradicted. 

Mr.  Chillingly  Mivers,  another  cadet  of  the  house,  was 
also  distinguished,  but  in  a  different  way.  He  was  a  bache- 
lor, now  about  the  age  of  thirty-five.  He  was  eminent  for  a 
supreme  well-bred  contempt  for  everybody  and  everything. 
He  was  the  originator  and  chief  proprietor  of  a  public  jour- 
nal called  "The  Londoner,"  which  had  lately  been  setup  on 
that  principle  of  contempt,  and,  wc  need  not  say,  was  ex- 
ceedingly popular  with  those  leading  members  of  the  com- 
munity who  admire  nobody  and  believe  in  nothing.  Mr. 
Cliillingly  Mivers  was  regarded  by  himself  and  by  others  as 
a  man  who  might  have  achieved  the  highest  success  in  any 
branch  of  literature,  if  he  had  deigned  to  exhibit  his  talents 
therein.  But  he  did  not  so  deign,  and  therefore  he  had  full 
right  to  imply  that,  if  he  had  written  an  epic,  a  drama,  a 
novel,  a  history,  a  metaphysical  treatise,  Milton,  Shake^ 
speare,  Cervantes,  Hume,  Berkeley  would    have    been    no- 


8-  KEN  ELM    CHILLINGLY. 

where.  He  held  greatly  to  the  dignity  of  tlic  anonymous  ; 
and  even  in  the  journal  wliich  he  originated,  nobody  could 
ever  ascertain  what  he  wrote.  But,  at  all  events,  Mr.  Chill- 
ingly Mi  vers  was  what  Mr.  Chillingly  Gordon  Avas  not — 
viz.,  a  very  clever  man,  and  by  no  means  an  luipleasant 
one  in  general  society. 

The  Rev.  John  Stalworth  Chillingly  was  a  decided  adhe- 
rent to  the  creed  of  what  is  called  "  musculfir  Christianity," 
and  a  very  fine  specimen  of  it  too.  A  tall  stout  man  with 
broad  shoulders,  and  that  division  of  lower  limb  which  inter- 
venes between  the  knee  and  the  ankle  powerfully  developed. 
He  would  have  knocked  down  a  deist  as  soon  as  looked  at 
him.  It  is  told  by  the  Sieur  de  Joinville,  in  liis  INIemoir  of 
Louis,  the  sainted  king,  that  an  assembly  of  divines  and 
theologians  convened  the  Jews  of  an  oriental  city  for  the 
purpose  of  arguing  with  them  on  tlie  truths  of  Christianity, 
and  a  certain  knight,  who  was  at  that  time  crippled,  and 
supporting  himself  on  crutches,  asked  and  obtained  permis- 
sion to  be  present  at  the  debate.  The  Jews  flocked  to  the 
summons,  when  a  prelate,  selecting  a  learned  rabbi,  mildly 
put  to  him  the  leading  question  whether  he  owned  the  di- 
vine conception  of  our  Lord.  "  Certainly  not,"  replied  the 
rabbi  ;  whereon  the  pious  knight,  shocked  by  such  blas- 
phemy, uplifted  his  crutcli  and  felled  tlie  rabbi,  and  then 
Hung  himself  among  the  otlier  misbelievers,  whom  he  soon 
dispersed  in  ignominious  flight  and  in  a  very  belabored  con- 
dition. The  conduct  of  the  knight  was  reported  to  the  sain- 
ted king,  with  a  request  that  it  should  be  properly  repri- 
manded ;  but  the  sainted  king  delivered  himself  of  this  wise 
judgment : 

"  If  a  pious  knight  is  a  very  learned  clerk,  and  can  meet 
in  fair  argument  the  doctrines  of  the  misbeliever,  by  all 
means  let  him  argue  fairly  ;  but  if  a  pious  knight  is  not  a 
learned  clerk,  and  the  argument  goes  against  him,  tlicn  let 
the  pious  knight  cut  the  discussion  short  by  the  edge  of  his 
gojd  sword." 

The  Rev.  John  Stalworth  Chillingly  was  of  the  same 
opinion  as  St.  Louis  ;  otherwise,  he  was  a  mild  and  amiable 
man.  He  encouraged  cricket  and  other  manly  sports  among 
his  parishioners.  He  was  a  skilful  and  bold  rider,  but  he 
did  not  hunt ;  a  convivial  man — and  took  his  bottle  freely. 
But  liis  tastes  in  literature  wer.c  of  a  refined  and  peaceful 
character,  contrasting  therein  the  tendencies  one  might  have 
expected  from  his  muscular   development  of  Christianity. 


KEMELM  CHILLINGLY.  9 

He  was  a  great  reader  of  poetry,  but  lie  disliked  Scott  and 
Byron,  whom  he  considered  flashy  and  noisy  :  he  maintained 
that  Pope  was  only  a  versifier,  and  that  the  greatest  poet 
in  the  language  was  Wordsworth  ;  he  did  not  care  much  for 
the  ancient  classics  ;  he  refused  all  merit  to  the  French 
poets  ;  he  knew  nothing  of  the  Italian,  but  he  dabbled  in 
German,  and  was  inclined  to  bore  one  about  the  Hermann 
and  Dorothea  of  Goethe.  He  was  married  to  a  homely  little 
wife,  who  revered  him  in  silence,  and  thought  there  would 
be  no  schism  in  the  Church  if  he  were  in  his  right  place  as 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury :  in  this  opinion  he  entirely 
agreed  with  his  wife. 

Besides  these  three  male  specimens  of  the  Chillingly 
race,  the  fairer  sex  was  represented,  in  the  absence  of  her 
ladyship,  who  still  kept  her  room,  by  three  female  Chillinglys 
— sisters  of  Sir  Peter — and  all  three  spinsters.  Perhaps  one 
reason  why  they  had  remained  single  was,  that  externally 
they  were  so  like  each  other  that  a  suitor  must  have 
bfeen  puzzled  which  to  choose,  and  may  have  been  afraid 
that  if  he  did  choose  one,  he  should  be  caught  next  day 
kissing  another  one  in  mistake.  They  were  all  tall,  all  thin, 
with  long  throats — and  beneath  the  throats  a  fine  develop- 
ment of  bone.  They  had  all  pale  hair,  pale  eyelids,  pale 
eyes,  and  pale  complexions.  They  all  dressed  exactly  alike, 
and  their  favorite  color  was  a  vivid  green  :  they  were  so 
dressed  on  this  occasion. 

As  there  was  such  similitude  in  their  persons,  so,  to  an 
ordinary  observer,  they  were  exactly  the  same  in  character 
and  mind.  Very  well  behaved,  with  proper  notions  of 
female  decorum — very  distant  and  reserved  in  manner  to 
strangers — very  affectionate  to  each  other  and  their  relations 
or  favorites — very  good  to  the  poor,  whom  they  looked 
upon  as  a  different  order  of  creation,  and  treated  with  that 
sort  of  benevolence  which  humane  people  bestow  upon 
dumb  animals.  Their  minds  had  been  nourished  on  the 
same  books — what  one  read  the  others  had  read.  The  books 
were  mainly  divided  into  two  classes — novels,  and  what  they 
called  "good  books."  They  had  a  habit  of  taking  a  speci- 
men of  each  alternatelv — one  day  a  novel,  then  a  good  book, 
then  a  novel  again,  and  so  on.  Thus  if  the  imagination  was 
overwarmed  on  Monday,  on  Tuesday  it  was  cooled  down  to 
a  proper  temperature  ;  and  if  frost-bitten  on  Tuesday,  it 
took  a  tepid  bath  on  Wednesday.  The  novels  they  chose 
were  indeed  rarelv  of  a  nature  to  raise  tlie  intellectual  ther- 


lo  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

mometer  into  blood  lieat  :  the  heroes  and  heroines  were 
models  of  correct  conchict.  Mr.  James's  novels  were  then 
in  vogue,  and  they  united  in  saying  that  those  "  were  novels 
a  lather  might  allow  his  daughters  to  read."  But  though 
an  ordinary  observer  might  iiave  failed  to  recognize  any 
distinction  between  these  three  ladies,  and,  finding  them 
habitually  dressed  in  green,  would  have  said  they  were  as 
much  alike  as  one  pea  is  to  another,  they  had  their  idiosyn- 
cratic differences,  when  duly  examined.  Miss  Margaret,  the 
eldest,  was  the  commanding  one  of  the  three  ;  it  Avas  she 
who  regulated  their  household  (they  all  lived  together),  kept 
the  joint  purse,  and  decided  every  doubtful  point  tliat  arose, 
— whether  they  should  or  should  not  ask  Mrs.  So-and-so  to 
tea — whether  Mary  should  or  should  nut  be  discharged — 
whether  or  not  they  should  go  to  Broadstairs  or  to  Sandgate 
for  the' month  of  October.  In  fact,  Miss  Margaret  was  the 
WILL  of  the  body  corporate. 

Miss  Sibyl  was  of  milder  nature  and  more  melancholic 
temperament  ;  she  had  a  poetic  turn  of  mind,  and  occasion- 
ally wrote  verses.  Some  of  these  had  been  printed  on  satin 
paper,  and  sold  for  objects  of  beneficence  at  charity  bazaars. 
The  county  newspapers  said  that  the  verses  "were  charac- 
terized by  all  the  elegance  of  a  cultured  and  feminine  mind." 
The  other  two  sisters  agreed  that  Sibyl  was  the  genius  of  the 
household,  but,  like  all  geniuses,  not  sufficiently  practical 
for  the  world.  Miss  Sarah  Chillingly,  the  youngest  of  the 
three,  and  now  just  in  her  fcn-ty-fourth  year,  was  looked 
upon  by  the  others  as  '*a  dear  thing,  inclined  to  be  naughty, 
but  such  a  darling  that  nobody  could  have  the  heart  to 
scold  her."  Miss  Margaret  said  "  she  was  a  giddy  creature." 
Miss  Sibyl  wrote  a  poem  on  her,  entitled — 

"Warning  to  a  young  Lady  against  the  Pleasures  of  the 
World." 

They  all  called  her  Sally  ;  the  other  two  sisters  had  no  di- 
minutive synonyms.  vSally  is  a  name  indicative  of  fastness. 
But  this  Sally  would  not  have  been  thought  fast  in  another 
household,  and  she  was  now  little  likely  to  sally  out  of  tlie 
one  she  belonged  to.  These  sisters,  who  were  all  many  years 
older  than  Sir  Peter,  lived  in  a  handsome  old-fashioned  red- 
brick house,  with  a  large  garden  at  the  back,  in  the  princi- 
pal street  of  the  capital  of  their  native  county.  They  had 
each  ^10,000  for  porticm  ;  and  if  he  could  have  married  all 
three,  the  heir-at-law  would  have  married  them,  and  settled 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  II 

the  aggregate  ^/^3o,ooo  on  himself.  But  we  have  not  yet 
come  to  recognize  Mormonisni  as  legal,  though,  if  our 
social  progress  continues  to  slide  in  the  same  grooves  as  at 
present,  heaven  only  knows  what  triumphs  over  the  preju- 
dice of  our  ancestors  may  not  be  achieved  by  the  wisdom  of 
our  descendants  ! 


CHAPTER    III. 


Sir  Peter  stood  on  his  hearthstone,  surveyed  the  guests 
seated  in  semicircle,  and  said  :  "  Friends, — in  Parliament, 
before  anything  affecting  the  fate  of  a  Bill  is  discussed,  it  is, 
I  believe,  necessary  to  introduce  the  Bill."  He  paused  a 
moment,  rang  the  bell,  and  said  to  the  servant  who  entered, 
''Tell  nurse  to  bring  in  the  Baby." 

Mr.  Gordon  Chillingly. — "  I  don't  see  the  necessity 
for  that,  Sir  Peter.  We  may  take  the  existence  of  the  Baby 
for  granted." 

Mr.  Mivers. — "  It  is  an  advantage  to  the  reputation  of 
Sir  Peter's  work  to  preserve  the  incognito.  Omne  igmtum 
pro  magnifico." 

The  Rev.  John  Stalworth  Chillingly. — "T  don't  ap- 
prove the  cynical  levity  of  such  remarks.  Of  course  we 
must  all  be  anxious  to  see,  in  the  earliest  stage  of  being,  the 
future  representative  of  our  name  and  race.  Who  would 
not  wish  to  contemplate  the  source,  however  small,  of  the 
Tigris  or  the  Nile  ! " 

Miss  Sally  (tittering). — "  He  !  he  !  " 

Miss  Margaret. — "  P'or  shame,  you  giddy  thing  !  " 

The  Baby  enters  in  the  nurse's  arms.  AH  rise  and  gather 
round  the  Baby,  with  one  exception — Mr.  Gordon,  who  has 
ceased  to  be  heir-at-law. 

The  Baby  returned  the  gaze  of  its  relations  with  the 
most  contemptuous  indifference.  Miss  Sibyl  was  the  first 
to  pronounce  an  opinion  on  the  Baby's  attributes.  Said 
she,  in  a  solemn  whisper — "What  a  heavenly  mournful  ex- 
pression !  it  seems  so  grieved  to  have  left  the  angels  ! " 

The  Rev.  John. —  "  That  is  prettily  said,  cousin  Sibyl ;  but 
the  infant  must  pluck  up  courage  and  fight  its  way  among 
mortals  with  a  good  heart,  if  it  wants  to  get  back  to  the 


12  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

angels  again.  And  I  think  it  will  ;  a  fine  child."  He  took 
it  from  the  nurse,  and  moving  it  deliberately  up  and  down, 
as  if  to  weigh  it,  said  cheerfully,  "  Monstrous  heavy !  by  the 
time  it  is  twenty  it  will  be  a  match  for  a  prize-fighter  of 
fifteen  stone  !  " 

Therewith  he  strode  to  Gordon,  w^ho,  as  if  to  show  that 
he  now  considered  himself  wholly  apart  from  all  interest  in 
the  affairs  of  a  family  that  had  so  ill-treated  him  in  the  birth 
of  that  Baby,  had  taken  up  the  "  Times  "  newspaper  and 
concealed  liis  countenance  beneath  the  ample  sheet.  The 
Parson  abruptly  snatched  away  the  "  Times  "  with  one  hand, 
and,  with  the  other  substituting  to  the  indignant  eyes  of  the 
ci-devant  heir-at-law  the  spectacle  of  the  Baby,  said,  "  Kiss  it." 

"Kiss  it !  "  echoed  Chillingly  Gordon,  pushing  back  his 
chair — "  kiss  it  !  pooh,  sir,  stand  off!  I  never  kissed  my 
own  baby  ;  I  shall  not  kiss  another  man's.  Take  the  thing 
away,  sir  ;  it  is  ugly  ;  it  has  black  eyes." 

Sir  Peter,  who  w^as  near-sighted,  put  on  his  spectacles 
and  examined  the  face  of  the  new-born.  "True,"  said  he, 
"  it  has  black  eyes — very  extraordinary — portentous  ;  the 
first  Chillingly  that  ever  had  black  eyes." 

"Its  mamma  has  black  eyes,"  said  Miss  Margaret;  "it 
takes  after  its  mamma  ;  it  has  not  the  fair  beauty  of  the 
Chijlinglys,  but  it  is  not  ugly." 

'*  Sweet  infant !  "  sighed  Sibyl  ;  "  and  so  good — does  not 
cry." 

"It  has  neither  cried  nor  crowed  since  it  was  born,"  said 
the  nurse  ;  "  bless  its  little  heart !  " 

She  took  the  Baby  from  the  Parson's  arms,  and  smoothed 
back  the  frill  of  its  cap,  which  had  got  ruffled. 
"You  may  go  now,  nurse,"  said  Sir  Peter. 


CHAPTER   IV. 


"  I  AGREE  witli  Mr.  Shandy,"  said  vSir  Peter,  resuming  his 
stand  on  the  liearthstone,  "that  among  the  responsibilities 
of  a  parent  the  choice  of  a  name  which  his  child  is  to  bear 
for  life  is  one  of  the  gravest.  And  this  is  especially  so  with 
those  who  behmg  to  the  order  of  baronets.  In  the  case  of 
a  peer,  his  Christian  name,  fused  in  his  titular  designation, 
disappears.     In  the  case  of  a  Mister,  if   his    baptismal    be 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  13 

cacophonous  or  provocative  of  ridicule,  he  need  not  osten- 
tatiously parade  it  ;  he  may  drop  it  altogether  on  his  visit- 
ing cards,  and  may  be  imprinted  as  Mr.  Jones  instead  of 
Mr.  Ebenezer  .Jones.  In  his  signature,  save  where  the  forms 
of  the  law  demand  Ebenezer  in  full,  he  may  only  use  an  in- 
itial, and  be  your  obedient  servant  E.  Jones,  leaving  it  to  be 
conjectured  that  E.  stands  for  Edward  or  Ernest — names  in- 
ofifensive,  and  not  suggestive  of  a  Dissenting  Chapel,  like 
Ebenezer.  If  a  man  called  Edward  or  Ernest  be  detected  in 
some  youthful  indiscretion,  there  is  no  indelible  stain  on  his 
moral  character ;  but  if  an  Ebenezer  be  so  detected,  he  is 
set  down  as  a  hypocrite — it  produces  that  shock  on  the 
public  mind  which  is  felt  when  a  professed  saint  is  proved 
to  be  a  bit  of  a  sinner.  But  a  baronet  never  can  escape  from 
his  baptismal — it  cannot  \\q  perdu,  it  cannot  shrink  into  an 
initial,  it  stands  forth  glaringl}^  in  the  light  of  day  ;  christen 
him  Ebenezer,  and  he  is  Sir  Ebenezer  in  full,  with  all  its 
perilous  consequences  if  he  ever  succomb  to  those  tempta- 
tions to  which  even  baronets  are  exposed.  But,  my  friends, 
it  is  not  only  the  efifect  that  the  sound  of  a  name  has  upon 
others  which  is  to  be  thoughtfully  considered  ;  the  effect 
that  his  name  produces  on  the  man  himself  is  perhaps  still 
more  important.  Some  names  stimulate  and  encourage  the 
owner,  others  deject  and  paralyze  him  ;  I  am  a  melancholy 
instance  of  that  truth.  Peter  has  been  for  many  genera- 
tions, as  you  are  aware,  the  baptismal  to  which  the  eldest- 
born  of  our  family  has  been  devoted.  On  the  altar  of  that 
name  I  have  been  sacrificed.  Never  has  there  been  a  Sir 
Peter  Chillingly  who  has,  in  any  way,  distinguished  himself 
above  his  fellows.  That  name  lias  been  a  dead  weight  on 
my  intellectual  energies.  In  the  catalogue  of  illustrious 
Englishmen  there  is,  I  think,  no  immortal  Sir  Peter,  except 
Sir  Peter  Teazle,  and  he  only  exists  on  the  comic  stage." 

Miss  Sibyl.—"  Sir  Peter  Lely  ?  " 

Sir  Peter  Chillingly. — "That  painter  was  not  an  Eng- 
lishman. He  was  born  in  Westphalia,  famous  for  hams. 
I  confine  my  remarks  to  the  children  of  our  native  land.  I 
am  aware  that  in  foreign  countries  the  name  is  not  an  extin- 
guisher to  the  genius  of  its  owner.  But  why  ?  In  other 
countries  its  sound  is  modified.  Pierre  Corneille  Avas  a 
great  man  ;  but  I  put  it  to  you  w^iether,  had  he  been  an 
Englishman,  he  could  have  been  the  father  of  European 
tragedy  as  Peter  Crow  ?  " 

Miss  Sibyl. — "  Impossible  !" 


14  KEN  ELM   CJIILLINGLY. 

Miss  Sally.— "  He  !  he!" 

Miss  Margaret. — "  Tliere  is  nothing  to  laugh  at,  vou 
giddy  child  !  " 

Sir  Peter. — "My  son  shall  not  be  petrified  into  Peter." 

Mr.  Gordon  Chillingly. — ^"  If  a  man  is  such  a  fool — 
and  I  don't  say  your  son  will  not  be  a  fool,  cousin  Peter — as 
to  be  influenced  by  the  sound  of  his  own  name,  and  you 
want  the  booby  to  turn  the  world  topsy-turvy,  you  had  bet- 
ter call  iiim  Julias  Caesar,  or  Hannibal,  or  Attila,  or  Char- 
lemagne." 

Sir  Peter  (who  excels  mankind  in  imperturbability  of 
temper). — "  On  the  contrary,  if  you  inflict  upon  a  man  the 
burden  of  one  of  those  names,  the  glory  of  which  he  cannot 
reasonably  expect  to  eclipse  or  even  to  equal,  you  crush 
him  beneath  the  weight.  If  a  poet  were  calied  John  Milton 
or  William  Shakespeare,  he  could  not  dare  to  publish  even 
a  sonnet.  No  ;  the  choice  of  a  name  lies  between  the  two 
extremes  of  ludicrous  insignificance  and  oppressive  renown. 
For  this  reason  I  have  ordered  the  family  pedigree  to  be  sus- 
pended on  yonder  wall.  Let  us  examine  it  with  care,  and 
see  whether,  among  the  Chillinglys  themselves  or  their  alli- 
ances we  can  discover  a  name  that  can  be  borne  with  be- 
coming dignity  by  the  destined  head  of  our  house — a  name 
neither  too  liglit  nor  too  heavy." 

Sir  Peter  here  led  the  way  to  the  family  tree — a  goodly 
roll  of  parchment,  with  the  arms  of  the  family  emblazoned 
at  the  top.  Those  arms  were  simple,  as  ancient  heraldic 
coats  are — three  fishes  argent  on  a  field  azur  ;  the  crest  a 
mermaid's  head.  All  flocked  to  inspect  the  pedigree,  except 
Mr.  Gordon,  who  resumed  the  "Times"  newspaper. 

"  I  never  could  quite  make  out  what  kind  of  fishes  these 
are,"  said  the  Rev.  John  Stalworth.  "  They  are  certainly 
not  pike,  which  formed  the  emblematic  blazon  of  the  Ho- 
tofts,  and  are  still  grim  enough  to  frighten  future  Shake- 
speares,  on  the  scutcheon  of  tlie  Warwickshire  Lucys." 

"I  believe  they  are  tenches,"  said  Mr.  Mivers.  "The 
tench  is  a  fish  that  knows  how  to  keep  itself  safe,  by  a  phil- 
osophical taste  for  an  obscure  existence  in  deep  holes  and 
slush." 

Sir  Peter. — "  No,  Mivers  ;  the  fishes  are  dace,  a  fish  that, 
once  introduced  into  any  pond,  never  can  be  got  out  again. 
You  may  drag  the  water — you  may  let  off  the  water — you 
may  say  '  Those  dace  are  extirpated,' — vain  thought  ! — the 
dace  reappear  as  before  ;  and  in  this  respect  the  arms  are 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  15 

really  cmblamatic  of  the  family.  All  the  disorders  and  revo- 
lutions that  have  occurred  in  England  since  the  Heptarchy 
have  left  the  Chillinglys  the  same  race  in  the  same  place. 
Somehow  or  other  the  Norman  Conquest  did  not  despoil 
tliem  ;  they  held  fiefs  under  Eudo  Dapifer  as  peacefully  as 
they  had  held  them  under  King  Harold  ;  they  took  no  part 
in  the  Crusades,  nor  the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  nor  the  Civil 
AVars  between  Charles  I.  and  the  Parliament.  As  the  dace 
sticks  to  the  water,  and  the  water  sticks  by  the  dace,  so 
the  Chillinglys  stuck  to  the  land  and  the  land  stuck  by 
the  Chillinglys.  Perhaps  I  am  wrong  to  wish  that  the  new 
Chillingly  may  be  a  little  less  like  a  dace." 

"Oh!"  cried  INliss  Margaret,  who,  mounted  on  a  chair, 
had  been  inspecting  the  pedigree  through  an  eyeglass,  "  I 
don't  sec  a  fine  Christian  name  from  the  beginning,  except 
Oliver." 

Sir  Peter. — "That  Chillingly  was  born  in  Oliver  Crom- 
well's Protectorate,  and  named  Oliver  in  compliment  to  him, 
as  his  father,  born  in  the  reign  of  James  I.,  was  christened 
James.  The  three  fishes  always  swam  with  the  stream. 
Oliver  ! — Oliver  not  a  bad  name,  but  significant  of  radical 
doctrines." 

Mr.  Mivers. — "  I  don't  think  so.  Oliver  Cromwell  made 
short  work  of  radicals  and  their  doctrines  ;  but  perhaps  we 
can  find  a  name  less  awful  and  revolutionary."  / 

*'  I  have  it— I  have  it,"  cried  the  Parson.  "Here  is  a 
descent  from  Sir  Kenelm  Digby  and  Venetia  Stanley.  Sir 
Kenelm  Digby  !  No  finer  specimen  of  muscular  Christian- 
ity. He  fought  as  well  as  he  wrote  ; — eccentric,  it  is  true, 
but  always  a  gentleman.     Call  the  boy  Kenelm  !  " 

"A  sweet  name,"  said  Miss  Sibyl — "it  breathes  of  ro- 
mance." 

"Sir  Kenelm  Chillingly  !  It  sounds  well — imposing!" 
said  Miss  Margaret. 

"And,"  remarked  Mr.  Mivers,  "it  has  this  advantage- 
that  while  it  has  sufficient  association  with  honorable^  dis- 
tinction to  affect  the  mind  of  the  namesake  and  rouse  his 
emulation,  it  is  not  that  of  so  stupendous  a  personage  as  to 
defy  rivalry.  Sir  Kenelm  Digby  was  certainly  an  accom-. 
plished  and  gallant  gentleman  ;  but  what  with  his  silly  super- 
stition about  sympathetic  powders,  etc.,  any  man  nowadays 
might  be  clever  in  comparison  without  being  a  prodigy. 
Yes,  let  us  decide  on  Kenelm." 

Sir  Peter  meditated.     "Ccrtainlv."  said  he.  afteraDausc 


i6  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

— *'  certainly   the    name   of    Kenelm    carries   with    it   very 
crotchety  associations  ;  and   I  am  afraid    that    Sir  Kenelm 
Digby  did  not  make  a  prudent  choice  in  marriage.     The 
fair  Venetiawas  no  better  than  she  should  be;  and  I  should 
wish  my  heir  not  to  be  led  away  by  beauty,  but  wed  a  woman 
of  respectable  character  and  decorous  conduct." 
Miss  Margaret. — "  A  British  matron,  of  course." 
Three  Sisters  (in  chorus). — "  Of  course — of  course  !  " 
"  But,"  resumed  Sir  Peter,  "  I  am  crotchety  myself,  and 
crochets  are  innocent  things  enough  ;  and  as  for  marriage, 
the  Baby  cannot  marry  to-morrow,  so  that  we  have  ample 
time  to  consider  that  matter.     Kenelm  Digby  was  a  man 
any  family  might  be  proud  of ;  and,  as  you  say,  sister  Mar- 
garet,  Kenelm  Chillingly  does  not  sound   amiss — Kenelm 
Chillingly  it  shall  be  !  " 

The   Baby   was    accordingly    christened    Kenelm,   after 
which  ceremony  its  face  grew  longer  than  before. 


CHAPTER  V. 


Before  his  relations  dispersed.  Sir  Peter  summoned  Mr. 
Gordon  into  his  library. 

"Cousin,"  said  he,  kindly,  "  I  do  not  blame  you  for  the 
want  of  family  affection,  or  even  of  humane  interest,  which 
you  exhibit  towards  the  New-born." 

"  Blame  me,  cousin  Peter  !  I  should  think  not.  I  ex- 
hibit as  much  family  affection  and  humane  interest  as  could 
be  expected  from  me — circumstances  considered." 

"I  own,"  said  Sir  Peter,  with  all  his  wonted  mildness, 
"  that  after  remaining  childless  for  fourteen  years  of  wedded 
life,  the  advent  of  this  little  stranger  must  have  occasioned 
you,a  disagreeble  surprise.  But,  after  all,  as  I  am  many 
years  younger  than  you,  and,  in  the  course  of  nature,  shall 
outlive  you,  the  loss  is  less  to  yourself  than  to  your  son, 
and  upon  that  I  wish  to  say  a  few  words.  You  know  tco 
well  the  conditions  on  which  I  hold  my  estate  not  to  be 
aware  that  I  have  not  legally  the  power  to  saddle  it  with 
any  bequest  to  your  boy.  The  New-born  succeeds  to  the 
fee-simple  as  last  in  tail.  But  I  intend,  from  this  moment, 
to  lay  by  something  every  year  for  your  sou  out  of  my  in- 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  17 

come  ;  and,  fond  as  I  am  of  London  for  a  part  of  the  year, 
I  shall  now  give  up  my  town-Iiouse.  If  I  live  to  the  years 
the  Psalmist  allots  to  man,  I  shall  thus  accumulate  some- 
thing handsome  for  your  son,  which  may  be  taken  in  the 
way  of  compensation." 

Mr.  Gordon  was  by  no  means  softened  by  this  generous 
speech.  However,  he  answered  more  politely  than  was  his 
wont,  "My  son  will  be  very  much  obliged  to  you,  should 
he  ever  need  your  intended  bequest."  Pausing  a  moment, 
he  added,  with  a  cheerful  smile,  ''  A  large  percentage  of  in- 
fants die  before  attaining  the  age  of  twenty-one." 

"Nay,  but  I  am  told  your  son  is  an  uncommonly  fine 
healthy  child." 

"  My  son,  cousin  Peter !  I  was  not  thinking  of  my  son, 
but  of  yours.  Yours  has  a  big  head.  I  should  not  wonder 
if  he  had  water  in  it.  I  don't  wish  to  alarm  you,  but  he 
may  go  off  any  day,  and  in  that  case  it  is  not  likely  that 
Lady  Chillingly  will  condescend  to  replace  him.  So  you 
will  excuse  me  if  I  still  keep  a  watchful  eye  on  my  rights  ; 
and,  however  painful  to  my  feelings,  I  must  still  dispute 
your  right  to  cut  a  stick  of  the  field  timbei"." 

"That  is  nonsense,  Gordon.  I  am  tenant  for  life  with- 
out impeachment  of  waste,  and  can  cut  down  all  timber  not 
ornamental." 

"I  advise  you  not,  cousin  Peter.  I  have  told  you  before 
that  I  shall  try  the  question  at  law,  should  you  provoke  it, — 
amicably,  of  course.  Rights  are  rights  ;  and  if  I  am  driven 
to  maintain  mine,  I  trust  that  you  are  of  a  mind  too  liberal 
to  allow  your  family  affection  to  me  and  mine  to  be  influ- 
enced by  a  decree  of  the  Court  of  Chancery.  But  my  fly 
is  waiting.     I  must  not  miss  the  train." 

"Well,  good-bye,  Gordon.     Shake  hands." 

"  Shake  hands  ! — of  course — of  course.  By  the  by,  as  I 
came  through  the  lodge,  it  seemed  to  me  sadly  out  of  repair. 
I  believe  you  are  liable  for  dilapidations.     Good-bye." 

"  The  man  is  a  hog  in  armor,"  soliloquized  Sir  Peter,  when  \ 
his  cousin  was  gone  ;  "  and  if  it  be  hard  to  drive  a  common 
pig  in  the  way  he  don't  choose  to  go,  a  hog  in  armor  is  indeed 
undrivable.  But  his  boy  ought  not  to  suffer  for  his  father's 
hoggishness  ;  and  I  shall  begin  at  once  to  see  what  I  can  lay 
by  for  him.  After  all,  it  is  hard  upon  Gordon.  Poor  Gor- 
don ! — poor  fellow — poor  fellow  !  Still  I  hope  he  will  not  go 
to  law  with  me.  I  hate  law.  And  a  worm  will  turn — espe- 
cially a  worm  that  is  put  into  Chancery." 


l8  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Despite  the  sinister  semi-predictions  of  the  ci-devant  heir- 
at-law,  the  youthful  Chillingly  passed  with  safety,  and  indeed 
with  dignity,  through  the  infant  stages  of  existence.  He 
took  his  measles  and  whooping-cough  with  philosophical 
equanimity.  He  gradually  acquired  the  use  of  speech,  but 
he  did  not  too  lavishly  exercise  that  special  attribute  of  hu- 
manity. During  the  earlier  years  of  childhood  he  spoke  as 
little  as  if  he  had  been  prematurely  trained  in  the  school  of 
Pythagoras.  But  he  evidently  spoke  the  less  in  order  to 
reflect  the  more.  He  observed  closely  and  pondered  deeply 
over  what  he  observed.  At  the  age  of  eight  he  began  to 
convei'se  more  freely,  and  it  was  in  that  year  that  he  startled 
his  mother  with  the  question — "  Mamma,  are  you  not  some- 
times overpowered  by  the  sense  of  your  own  identity?" 

Lady  Chillingly — I  was  about  to  say  rushed,  but  Lady 
Chillingly  never  rushed — Lady  Chillingly  glided  less  sedate- 
ly than  her  wont  to  Sir  Peter,  and,  repeating  her  son's  ques- 
tion, said,  "The  boy  is  growing  troublesome,  too  wise  for 
any  woman  ;  he  must  go  to  school." 

Sir  Peter  was  of  the  same  opinion.  But  where  on  earth 
did  the  child  get  hold  of  so  long  a  word  as  "  identity,"  and 
how  did  so  extraordinary  and  puzzling  a  metaphysical  ques- 
tion come  into  his  head  ?  Sir  Peter  summoned  Kenelm,  and 
ascertained  that  the  boy,  having  free  access  to  the  library, 
had  fastened  upon  Locke  on  the  Human  Understanding,  and 
was  prepared  to  dispute  with  that  philosopher  upon  the 
doctrine  of  innate  ideas.  Quoth  Kenelm,  gravely — "  A  want 
is  an  idea  ;  and  if,  as  soon  as  I  was  born,  I  felt  the  want  of 
food  and  knew  at  once  where  to  turn  for  it,  without  being 
taught,  surely  I  came  into  the  world  with  an  'innate  idea.'  " 

Sir  Peter,  though  he  dabbled  in  metaphysics,  was  posed, 
and  scratched  his  head  without  getting  out  a  proper  answer 
as  to  the  distinction  between  ideas  and  instincts.  "  My 
child,"  he  said  at  last,  "you  don't  know  what  you  are  talking 
about ;  go  and  take  a  good  gallop  on  your  black  pony  ;  and  I 
forbid  you  to  read  a.ny  books  that  are  not  given  to  you  by 
myself  or  your  mamma.     Stick  to  Puss  in  Boots." 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  19 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Sir  Peter  ordered  his  carriage  and  drove  to  the  house  of 
the  stout  Parson.  That  doughty  ecclesiastic  held  a  family 
living  a  few  miles  distant  from  the  Hall,  and  was  the  only 
one  of  the  cousins  with  whom  Sir  Peter  habitually  com- 
muned on  his  domestic  affairs. 

He  found  the  Parson  in  his  study,  which  exhibited  tastes 
other  than  clerical.  Over  the  chimney-piece  were  ranged 
fencing-foils,  boxing-gloves,  and  staffs  for  the  athletic  exer- 
cise of  single-stick  ;  cricket-bats  and  fishing-rods  filled  up 
the  angles.  There  were  sundry  prints  on  the  walls  :  one  of 
Mr.  Wordsworth,  flanked  by  two  of  distinguished  race- 
horses ;  one  of  a  Leicestershire  short-horn,  with  which  the 
Parson,  who  farmed  his  own  glebe  and  bred  cattle  in  its 
rich  pastures,  had  won  a  prize  at  the  county  show  ;  and  on 
either  side  of  that  animal  were  the  portraits  of  Hooker  and 
Jeremy  Taylor.  There  were  dwarf  bookcases  containing 
miscellaneous  works  very  handsomely  bound.  At  the  open 
window,  a  stand  of  flower-pots,  the  flowers  in  full  bloom. 
The  Parson's  flowers  were  famous. 

The  appearance  of  the  whole  room  was  that  of  a  man 
who  is  tidy  and  neat  in  his  habits. 

"Cousin,"  said  Sir  Peter,  "  I  have  come  to  consult  you." 
And  therewith  he  related  the  marvellous  precocity  of  Ken- 
elm  Chillingly.  "You  see  the  name  begins  to  work  on  him 
rather  too  much.  He  must  go  to  school  ;  and  now  what 
school  shall  it  be  ?     Private  or  public  ?  " 

The  Rev.  John  Stalworth. — "There  is  a  great  deal  to 
be  said  for  or  against  either.  At  a  public  school  the 
chances  are  that  Kenelm  will  no  longer  be  overpowered  by 
a  sense  of  his  own  identity  ;  he  will  more  probably  lose 
identity  altogether.  The  worst  of  a  public  school  is  that  a 
sort  of  common  character  is  substituted  for  individual  char- 
acter. The  master,  of  course,  can't  attend  to  the  separate 
development  of  each  boy's  idiosyncrasy.  All  minds  are 
thrown  into  one  great  mould,  and  come  out  of  it  more  or 
less  in  the  same  form.  An  Etonian  may  be  clever  or  stu- 
pid, but,  as  either,  he  remains  emphatically  Etonian.  A 
public  school  ripens  talent,  but  its  tendency  is  to  slifle  ge- 
nius.    Then,  too,  a  public  school  for  an  only  son,  heir  to  a 


20  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

good  estate,  which  will  be  entirely  at  his  own  disposal,  is 
apt  to  encourage  reckless  and  extravagant  habits  ;  and  your 
estate  requires  careful  management,  and  leaves  no  margin 
for  an  heir's  notes  of  hand  and  post-obits.  Un  the  whole, 
I  am  against  a  public  school  for  Kenelm." 

"  Weil,  then,  we  will  decide  on  a  private  one." 

"  Hold !"  said  the  Parson;  "a  private  school  has  its 
drawbacks.  You  can  seldom  produce  large  fishes  in  small 
ponds.  In  private  schools  the  competition  is  narrowed, 
the  energi(?s  stinted.  The  schoolmaster's  wife  interferes, 
and  generally  coddles  the  boys.  There  is  not  manliness 
enough  in  those  academies  ;  no  fagging,  and  very  little 
fighting.  A  clever  boy  turns  out  a  prig  ;  a  boy  of  feebler 
intellect  turns  out  a  wcU-beliaved  young  lady  in  trousers. 
Nothing  muscular  in  the  system.  Decidedly,  the  namesake 
and  descendant  of  Kenelm  Digby  should  not  go  to  a  private 
seminary." 

"  So  far  as  I  gather  from  your  reasoning,"  said  Sir  Peter 
with  characteristic  placidity,  "  Kenelm  Chillingly  is  not  to 
go  to  school  at  all." 

"  It  does  look  like  it,"  said  the  Parson,  candidly  ;  "  but, 
on  consideration,  there  is  a  medium.  There  are  schools 
which  unite  the  best  qualities  of  public  and  private  schools, 
large  enough  to  stimulate  and  develop  energies  mental  and 
physical,  yet  not  so  framed  as  to  melt  all  character  in  one 
crucible.  For  instance,  there  is  a  school  which  has  at  this 
moment  one  of  the  first  scholars  in  Europe  for  head-master 
— a  school  which  has  turned  out  some  of  the  most  remark- 
able men  of  the  rising-  generation.  The  master  sees  at  a 
glance  if  a  boy  be  clever,  and  takes  pains  wnth  him  accord- 
ingly. He  is  not  a  mere  teacher  of  hexameters  and  Sap- 
phics. His  learning  embraces  all  literature,  ancient  and 
modern.  He  is  a  good  writer  and  a  fine  critic — admires 
Wordsworth.  He  winks  at  fighting,  his  boys  know  how  to 
use  their  fists,  and  they  are  not  in  the  habit  of  signing  post- 
obits  before  they  are  fifteen.  Merton  School  is  the  place 
for  Kenelm." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Sir  Peter.  "  It  is  a  great  comfort  in 
life  to  find  somebody  who  can  decide  for  one.  I  am  an 
irresolute  man  myself,  and  in  ordinary  matters  willingly  let 
Lady  Chillingly  govern  me." 

"I  should  like  to  see  a  wife  govern  w^,"said  the  stoutParson. 

"  But  you  are  not  married  to  Lady  Chillingly.  And  now 
let  us  go  into  the  garden  and  look  at  your  dahlias." 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY.  21 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  youthful  confuter  of  Locke  was  despatched  to  Mer- 
ton  School,  and  ranked,  according  to  his  merits,  as  lag  of 
the  penultimate  form.  When  he  came  home  for  the  Christ- 
mas holidays  he  was  more  saturnine  than  ever— in  fact,  his 
countenance  bore  the  impression  of  some  absoring  grief. 
He  said,  however,  that  he  liked  school  very  well,  and  eluded 
all  other  questions.  But  early  the  next  morning  he  mount- 
ed his  black  pony  and  rode  to  the  Parson's  rectory._  The 
reverend  gentleman  was  in  his  farmyard  examining  his  bul- 
locks when  Kenelm  accosted  him  thus  briefly  : 

"  Sir,  I  am  disgraced,  and  I  shall  die  of  it  if  you  cannot 
help  to  set  me  right  in  my  own  eyes." 

''My  dear  boy,  don't  talk  in  that  way.  Come  into  my 
study." 

As  soon  as  they  entered  that  room,  and  the  Parson  had 
carefully  closed  the  door,  he  took  the  boy's  arm,  turned  him 
round  to  the  light,  and  saw  at  once  that  there  was  some- 
thing very  grave  on  his  mind.  Chucking  him  under  the 
chin,  the  Parson  said  cheerily,  "  Hold  up  your  head,  Ken- 
elm.  I  am  sure  you  have  done  nothing  unworthy  of  a  gen- 
tleman." 

"  I  don't  know  that.  I  fought  a  boy  very  little^  bigger 
than  myself,  and  I  have  been  licked.  I  did  not  give  in, 
though  ;  but  the  other  boys  picked  me  up,  for  I  could  not 
stand  any  longer— and  the"^  fellow  is  a  great  bully— and  his 
name  is  Butt — and  he's  the  son  of  a  lawyer— and  he  got  my 
head  into  chancery — and  I  have  challenged  him  to  fight 
again  next  half — and  unless  you  can  help  me  to  lick  him,  I 
shall  never  be  good  for  anything  in  the  world — never.  It 
will  break  my  heart." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  you  have  had  the  pluck  to  chal- 
lenge him.  just  let  me  see  how  you  double  your  fist. 
Well,  that's  not  amiss.  Now,  put  yourself  into  a  fighting 
attitude,  and  hit  out  at  me — hard— harder  !  Pooh  !  that 
will  never  do.  You  should  make  your  blows  as  straight  as 
an  arrow.  And  that's  not  the  way  to  stand.  Stop — so  ;  well 
orT  your  haunches — weight  on  your  left  leg — good  !  Now, 
put  on  these  gloves,  and  I'll  give  you  a  lesson  in  boxing." 


22  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

Five  minutes  afterwards  Mrs.  John  Cliillingly,  entering 
the  room  to  summon  her  husband  to  breakfast,  stood  as- 
tounded to  sec  him  witli  his  coat  off,  and  parrying  the  blows 
of  Kenclm,  who  flew  at  him  like  a  young  tiger.  The  good 
pastor  at  that  moment  might  certainly  have  appeared  a  fine 
type  of  muscular  Christianity,  but  not  of  that  kind  of  Chris- 
tianity out  of  which  one  makes  Archbishops  of  Canterbury. 

"Good  gracious  me!"  faltered  Mrs.  John  Chillingly; 
and  then,  wife-like,  flying  to  the  protection  of  her  husband, 
she  seized  Kenelm  by  the  shoulders,  and  gave  him  a  good 
shaking.  The  Parson,  who  was  sadly  out  of  breath,  was 
not  displeased  at  the  interruption,  but  took  that  opportu- 
nity to  put  on  his  coat,  and  said,  "We'll  begin  again  to- 
morrow. Now,  come  to  breakfast."  But  during  breakfast 
Kenelm's  face  still  betrayed  dejection,  and  he  talked  little, 
and  ate  less. 

As  soon  as  the  meal  was  over,  he  drew^  the  Parson  into 
the  garden  and  said,  "  I  have  been  thinking,  sir,  that  per- 
haps it  is  not  fair  to  Butt,  that  I  should  be  taking  these 
lessons  ;  and  if  it  is  not  fair,  Pd  rather  not " 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  my  boy  ! "  cried  the  Parson,  trans- 
ported. "  The  name  of  Kenelm  is  not  thrown  away  upon 
you.  The  natural  desire  of  man  in  his  attribute  of  fighting 
animal  (an  attribute  in  which,  I  believe,  he  excels  all  other 
animated  beings,  except  a  quail  and  a  gamecock),  is  to  beat 
his  adversary.  But  the  natural  desire  of  that  culmination 
of  man  which  we  call  gentleman,  is  to  beat  his  adversary 
fairly.  ^A  gentleman  would  rather  be  beaten  fairly  than 
beat  unfairly.      Is  not  that  your  thought?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Kenelm,  firmly;  and  then,  beginning  to 
philosophize,  he  added, — "  And  it  stands  to  reason  ;  be- 
cause if  I  beat  a  fellow  imfairly,  I  don't  really  beat  him  at 
all." 

"  Excellent !  But  suppose  that  you  and  another  boy  go 
into  examination  upon  Caesar's  Commentaries  or  the  multi- 
plication-table, and  the  other  boy  is  cleverer  than  you,  but 
you  have  taken  the  trouble  to  learn  the  subject  and  he  has 
not ;  should  you  say  you  beat  him  unfairly  ?  " 

Kenelm  meditated  a  moment,  and  then  said  decidedly, 
"No." 

"That  which  applies  to  the  use  of  your  brains  applies 
equally  to  the  use  of  your  fists.    Do  you  comprehend  me  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir  ;  I  do  now." 

"  In  the  time  of  your  namesake,  Sir  Kenelm  Digby,  gen- 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  23 

tlemeii  wore  swords,  and  they  learned  how  to  use  them,  be- 
cause, in  case  of  quarrel,  they  had  to  fight  with  them. 
Nobody,  at  least  in  England,  fights  with  swords  now.  It  is 
a  democratic  age,  and  if  you  fight  at  all,  you  are  reduced  to 
fists  ;  and  if  Kenelm  Digby  learned  to  fence,  so  Kenelm 
Chillingly  must  learn  to  box  ;  and  if  a  gentleman  thrashes  a 
drayman  twice  his  size,  who  has  not  learned  to  box,  it  is  not 
imfair  ;  it  is  but  an  exemplification  of  the  truth,  that  knowl- 
edge is  power.  Come  and  take  another  lesson  on  boxing 
to-morrow." 

Kenelm  remounted  his  pony  and  returned  home.  He 
found  his  father  sauntering  in  the  garden  with  a  book  in  his 
hand.  "  Papa,"  said  Kenelm,  "  how  does  one  gentleman 
write  to  another  with  whom  he  has  a  quarrel,  and  he  don't 
want  to  make  it  up,  but  he  has  something  to  say  about 
the  quarrel  which  it  is  fair  the  other  gentleman  should 
know  ?  " 

"I  don't  understand  what  you  mean." 

"Well,  just  before  I  went  to  school  I  remember  hearing 
you  say  that  you  had  a  quarrel  with  Lord  Hautfort,  and  that 
he  was  an  ass,  and  you  would  write  and  tell  him  so.  When 
you  wrote  did  you  say,  '  You  are  an  ass '  ?  Is  that  the  way 
one  gentleman  writes  to  another  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  honor,  Kenelm,  you  ask  very  odd  questions. 
But  you  cannot  learn  too  early  this  fact,  that  ii^ony  is  to  the 
high-bred  what  billingsgate  is  to  the  vulgar  ;  and  when  one 
gentleman  thinks  another  gentleman  an  ass,  he  does  not  say 
it  point-blank — he  implies  it  in  the  politest  terras  he  can 
invent.  Lord  Hautfort  denies  my  right  of  free  warren  over 
a  trout-stream  that  runs  through  his  lands.  I  don't  care  a 
rush  about  the  trout-stream,  but  there  is  no  doubt  of  my 
right  to  fish  in  it.  He  was  an  ass  to  raise  the  question  ;  for, 
if  he  had  not,  I  should  not  have  exercised  the  right.  As  he 
did  raise  the  question,  I  was  obliged  to  catch  histi-out." 

"  And  you  wrote  a  letter  to  him  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  How  did  you  write,  papa?     What  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  Something  like  this.  '  Sir  Peter  Chillingly  presents  his 
compliments  to  Lord  Hautfort,  and  thinks  it  fair  to  his  lord- 
ship to  say  that  he  has  taken  the  best  legal  advice  with  re- 
gard to  his  rights  of  free  warren,  and  trusts  to  be  forgiven 
if  he  presumes  to  suggest  that  Lord  Hautfort  might  do  well 
to  consult  his  own  lawyer  before  he  decides  on  disputing 
them.'  " 


24  KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY. 

"Thank  you,  papa.     I  see " 

That  evening  Kenelm  wrote  the  following  letter  : 

"  Mr.  Chillingly  presents  his  compliments  to  Mr.  Butt,  and  tliinks  it  fair 
to  Mr.  Butt  to  say,  tliat  lie  is  taking  lessons  in  boxing,  and  trusts  to  be  for- 
given if  he  presumes  to  suggest  that  Mr.  Butt  miglit  do  well  to  take  lessons 
himself  before  fighting  with  Mr.  Chillingly  next  half." 

"  Papa,"  said  Kenelm  the  next  morning,  "  I  want  to  write 
to  a  schoolfellow  whose  name  is  Butt  ;  he  is  the  son  of  a 
lawyer  who  is  called  a  Serjeant.  I  don't  know  where  to 
direct  to  him." 

"  That  is  easily  ascertained,"  said  Sir  Peter.  "  Serjeant 
Butt  is  an  eminent  man,  and  his  address  will  be  in  tlie 
Coiu't  Guide."  The  address  .  was  found — Bloomsbury 
Square,  and  Kenelm  directed  his  letter  accordingly.  In 
due  course  he  received  this  answer  : 

"You  are  an  insolent  little  fool,  and  I'll  thrash  you  within  an  inch  of 
your  life. 

"  Robert  Butt." 

After  the  receipt  of  that  polite  epistle,  Kenelm  Chilling- 
ly's  scruples  vanished,  and  he  took  daily  lessons  in  muscu- 
lar Christianity. 

Kenelm  returned  to  school  with  a  brow  cleared  from 
care,  and  three  days  after  his  return  he  wrote  to  the  Rev. 
John  : 

"Dear  Sir, — I  have  licked  Butt.  Knowledge  is  power.  Your  affec- 
tionate 

"  Kenelm. 

"/'.  S. — Now  that  I  have  licked  Butt,   I  have  made  it  up  with  him." 

Froiu  that  time  Kenelm  prospered.  Eulogistic  letters 
from  the  illustrious  head-master  showered  in  upon  Sir  Peter. 
At  the  age  of  sixteen  Kenelm  Chillingly  was  the  head  of  the 
scliool,  and  quitting  it  finally,  brought  home  the  following 
letter  from  his  Orbilius  to  Sir  Peter,  marked  "  confidential  "  : 

"  Dear  Sir  Peter  Ciiii.i  ivm.v, — I  have  never  felt  more  anxious  for  the 
future  career  of  any  of  my  p'.i|ids  than  I  do  for  tliat  of  your  son.  He  is  so 
clever  that,  with  ease  to  liimself,  he  may  become  a  great  man.  lie  is  so  pecu- 
liar, that  it  is  quite  as  likely  that  he  may  only  make  himself  known  to  the 
world  as  a  great  oddity.  That  distinguished  teacher,  Dr.  Arnold,  said  that 
the  difference  between  one  boy  and  another  was  not  so  much  talent  as  energy. 
Your  sou  lias  talent,  has  energy, — yet  he  wants  something  for  success  in  life  ; 


KENEL2I  CHILLINGLY.  25 

he  wants  the  faculty  of  amalgamation.  He  is  of  a  melancholic  and  therefore 
imsocial  temperament.  He  will  not  act  in  concert  with  others.  He  is  lovable 
enough  ;  the  other  boys  like  him,  especially  the  smaller  ones,  with  whom  he 
he  is  a  sort  of  hero  ;  but  he  has  not  one  intimate  friend.  So  far  as  school 
learning  is  concerned,  he  might  go  to  college  at  once,  and  with  the  certainty 
of  distinction,  provided  he  chose  to  exert  himself.  But  if  I  may  venture  to 
offer  an  advice,  I  should  say  employ  the  next  two  years  in  letting  him  see  a 
little  more  of  real  life  and  acquire  a  due  sense  of  its  practical  objects.  Send 
him  to  a  private  tutor  who  is  not  a  pedant,  but  a  man  of  letters  or  a  man  of 
the  world,  and  if  in  the  metropolis  30  much  the  better.  In  a  word,  my  your." 
friend  is  unlike  other  people;  and,  with  qualities  that  might  do  anything  in 
life,  I  fear,  unless  you  can  get  him  to  be  like  other  people,  that  he  will  do 
nothing.  Excuse  the  freedom  with  which  I  write,  and  ascribe  it  to  the  sin- 
gular interest  with  which  your  son  has  inspired  me.  I  have  the  honor  to  be, 
dear  Sir  Peter,  yours  truly, 

"  William  Horton." 

Upon  the  strength  of  this  letter  Sir  Peter  did  not  indeed 
suinmon  another  family  council  ;  for  he  did  not  consider 
that  his  three  maiden  sisters  could  offer  any  practical  ad- 
vice on  the  matter.  And  as  to  Mr.  Gordon,  that  gentleman 
having  gone  to  law  on  the  great  timber  question,  and  hav- 
ing been  signally  beaten  thereon,  had  informed  Sir  Peter 
that  he  disowned  him  as  a  cousin  and  despised  him  as  a  man 
— not  exactly  in  those  words — more  covertly,  and  therefore 
more  stingingly.  But  Sir  Peter  invited  Mr.  Mivers  for  a 
week's  shooting,  and  requested  the  Rev.  John  to  meet  him. 

Mr.  Mivers  arrived.  The  sixteen  years  that  had  elapsed 
since  he  was  first  introduced  to  the  reader,  had  made  no 
perceptible  change  in  his  appearance.  It  was  one  of  his 
maxims  that  in  youth  a  man  of  the  world  should  appear 
older  than  he  is  ;  and  in  middle  age,  and  thence  to  his  dy- 
ing day,  younger.  And  he  announced  one  secret  for  attain- 
ing that  art  in  these  words  :  "  Begin  your  wig  early,  thus 
you  never  become  gray." 

Unlike  most  philosophers,  Mivers  made  his  practice  con- 
form to  his  precepts  ;  and  while  in  the  prime  of  youth  in- 
augurated a  wig  in  a  fashion  that  defied  the  flight  of  time, 
not  curly  and  hyacinthine,  but  straight-haired  and  unassum- 
ing. He  looked  five-and-thirty  from  the  day  he  put  on  that 
wig  at  the  age  of  twenty-five.  He  looked  five-and-thirty 
now  at  the  age  of  fifty-one. 

"  I  mean,"  said  he,  "  to  remain  thirty-five  all  my  life.  No 
better  age  to  stick  at.  People  may  choose  to  say  I  am  more, 
but  I  shall  not  own  it.  No  one  is  bound  to  criminate  him- 
self." 

Mr.  Mivers  had  some  other  aphorisms  on  this  important 


26  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

subject.  One  was,  "  Refuse  to  be  ill.  Never  tell  people 
you  are  ill  ;  never  own  it  yourself.  Illness  is  one  of  those 
things  which  a  man  should  resist  on  principle  at  the  onset. 
It  should  never  be  allowed  to  get  in  the  thin  end  of  the 
wedge.  But  take  care  of  your  constitution,  and,  having 
ascertained  the  best  habits  for  it,  keep  to  them  like  clock- 
work." Mr.  Mivers  would  not  have  missed  his  constitutional 
walk  in  the  Park  before  breakfast,  if,  by  going  in  a  cab  to 
St.  Giles's,  he  could  have  saved  the  city  of  London  from 
conflagration. 

Another  aphorism  of  his  was,  "  If  you  want  to  keep 
young,  live  in  a  metropolis  ;  never  stay  above  a  few  weeks 
at  a  time  in  the  country.  Take  two  men  of  similar  constitu- 
tion at  the  age  of  twenty-five  ;  let  one  live  in  London  and 
enjoy  a  regular  sort  of  club-life  ;  send  the  other  to  some 
rural  district,  preposterously  called  '  salul)rious.'  Look  at 
these  men  when  they  have  both  reached  the  age  of  forty- 
five.  The  London  man  has  preserved  his  figure,  the  rural 
man  has  a  paunch.  Tlie  London  man  has  an  interesting 
delicacy  of  complexion  ;  the  face  of  the  rural  man  is  coarse- 
grained and  perhaps  jowly." 

A  third  axiom  was,  "  Don't  be  a  family  man  ;  nothing 
ages  one  like  matrimonial  felicity  and  paternal  tics.  Never 
multiply  cares,  and  pack  up  your  life  in  the  briefest  compass 
you  can.  Why  add  to  your  carpet-bag  of  troubles  the  con- 
tents of  a  lady's  imperials  and  bonnet-boxes,  and  the  travel- 
ing/(f^/zrifi^-';/  required  by  the  nursery?  Shun  ambition — it  is 
so  gouty.  It  takes  a  great  deal  out  of  a  man's  life,  and 
gives  him  nothing  worth  having  till  he  has  ceased  to  enjoy 
it." 

Another  of  his  aphorisms  was  this,  "A  fresh  mind  keeps 
the  body  fresh.  Take  in  the  ideas  of  the  day,  drain  off 
those  of  yesterday.  As  to  the  morrow,  time  enough  to  con- 
sider it  when  it  becomes  to-day." 

Preserving  himself  by  attention  to  these  rules,  Mr.  Mivers 
appeared  at  Exmundham  iotiis^  teres,  but  not  rotundns — a 
man  of  middle  height,  slender,  upright,  with  well-cut,  small, 
slight  features,  thin  lips,  enclosing  an  excellent  set  of  teeth, 
even,  white,  and  not  indebted  to  the  dentist.  For  the  sake 
of  those  teeth  he  shunned  acid  wines,  especially  hock  in  all 
its  varieties,  culinary  sweets,  and  hot  drinks.  He  drank 
even  his  tea  cold.  "There  are,"  he  said,  "two  things  in  life 
that  a  sage  must  preserve  at  every  sacrifice,  the  coats  of  his 
stomach  and  the  enamel  of  his  teeth.     Some  evils  admit  of 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  '27 

consolations  :  there  are  no  comforters  for  dyspepsia  and 
toothache."  A  man  of  letters,  but  a  man  of  the  world,  he 
had  so  cultivated  his  mind  as  both,  that  he  was  feared  as 
the  one,  and  liked  as  the  other.  As  a  man  of  letters  he 
despised  the  world  ;  as  a  man  of  the  world  he  despised  let- 
ters.    As  a  representative  of  both  he  revered  himself. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  from  the  arrival  of  Mr. 
Mivers,  he,  the  Parson,  and  Sir  Peter  were  seated  in  the 
host's  parlor,  the  Parson  in  an  arm-chair  by  the  ingle, 
smoking  a  short  cutty-pipe  ;  Mivers  at  length  on  the  couch, 
slowly  inhaling  the  perfumes  of  one  of  his  own  choice 
trakucos.  Sir  Peter  never  smoked.  There  were  spirits  and 
hot  water  and  lemons  on  the  table.  The  Parson  was  famed 
for  skill  in  the  composition  of  toddy.  From  time  to  time  the 
Parson  sipped  his  glass,  and  Sir  Peter,  less  frequently,  did 
the  same.  It  is  needless  to  say  tliat  Mr.  Mivers  eschewed 
toddy  ;  but  beside  him,  on  a  chair,  was  a  tumbler  and  large 
carafe  of  iced  water. 

Sir  Peter. — "  Cousin  Mivers,  you  have  now  had  time  to 
study  Kenelm,  and  to  compare  his  character  with  that  as- 
signed to  him  in  tlie  Doctor's  letter." 

Mivers  (languidly). — "Ay." 

Sir  Peter. — "  I  ask  you,  as  a  man  of  the  world,  what  you 
think  I  had  best  do  with  the  boy.  Shall  I  send  him  to 
such  a  tutor  as  the  Doctor  suggests  ?  Cousin  John  is  not 
of  the  same  mind  as  the  Doctor,  and  thinks  that  Kenelm's 
oddities  are  fine  things  in  their  way,  and  sliould  not  be  pre- 
maturely ground  out  of  him  by  contact  with  worldly  tutors 
and  London  pavements." 

"Ay,"  repeated  Mr.  Mivers,  more  languidly  than  before. 
After  a  pause  he  added,  "  Parson  John,  let  us  hear  you." 

The  Parson  laid  aside  his  cutty-pipe,  and  emptied  his 
fourth  tumbler  of  toddy,  then,  throwing  back  his  head  in 
the  dreamy  fasliion  of  the  great  Coleridge  when  he  indulged 
in  a  monologue,  he  thus  began,  speaking  somewhat  through 
his  nose  : 

"At  the  morning  of  life " 


28  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

Here  Mivcrs  shrugged  his  shoulders,  turned  round  on 
his  couch,  and  closed  his  eyes  with  the  sigh  of  a  man  resign- 
ing himself  to  a  homily. 

"At  the  morning  of  life,  when  the  dews " 

"I  knew  the  dews  were  coming,"  said  Mivers.  "Dry 
them,  if  you  please  ;  nothing  so  unwholesome.  We  anticipate 
what  you  mean  to  say,  which  is  plainly  this — When  a  fellow 
is  sixteen  he  is  very  fresh  ;  so  he  is.      Pass  on— what  then  ?" 

"  If  you  mean  to  interrupt  me  with  your  habitual  cyni- 
cism," said  the  Parson,  "  why  did  you  ask  to  hear  me  ?  " 

"That  was  a  mistake,  I  grant  ;  but  who  on  earth  could 
conceive  that  you  were  going  to  commence  in  that  florid 
style  ?     Morning  of  life  indeed  ! — bosh  !" 

"Cousin  Mivers,"  said  Sir  Peter,  "you  are  not  reviewing 
John's  style  in  '  The  I,ondo:ier  ; '  and  I  will  beg  you  to 
remember  that  my  son's  morning  of  life  is  a  serious  thing  to 
his  father,  and  not  to  be  nipped  in  its  bud  by  a  cousin.  Pro- 
ceed, John  !  " 

Quoth  the  Parson,  good-humoredly,  "  I  will  adapt  my 
style  to  the  taste  of  my  critic.  When  a  fellow  is  at  the  age 
of  sixteen,  and  very  fresh  to  life,  the  question  is  whether  he 
should  begin  thus  prematurely  to  exchange  the  ideas  that 
belong  to  youth  for  the  ideas  that  properly  belong  to  mid- 
dle age, — whether  he  should  begin  to  acquire  that  knowl- 
edge of  the  world  which  middle-aged  men  have  acquired  and 
can  teach.  I  think  not.  I  would  rather  have  him  yet 
awhile  in  the  company  of  the  poets — in  the  indulgence  of 
glorious  hopes  and  beautiful  dreams,  forming  to  himself 
some  type  of  the  Heroic,  which  he  will  keep  before  his  eyes 
as  a  standard  when  he  goes  into  the  world  as  man.  There 
are  two  schools  of  thought  fcjr  the  formation  of  character — 
the  Real  and  Ideal.  I  would  form  the  character  in  the  Ideal 
school,  in  order  to  make  it  boldere  and  grander  and  lovelier 
when  it  takes  place  in  that  every-day  life  which  is  called 
the  Real.  And  therefore  I  am  not  for  placing  the  descendant 
of  Sir  Kenelm  Digby,  in  the  interval  between  school  and 
college,  with  a  man  of  the  world,  probably  as  cynical  as 
cousin  Mivers,  and  living  in  the  stony  thoroughfares  of 
London." 

Mr.  Mivers  (rousing  himself). — "  Before  we  plunge  into 
that  Serbonian  bog — the  controversy  between  the  Realistic 
and  the  Idealistic  academicians — I  think  the  first  thins;  to 
decide  is  what  you  want  Kenelm  to  be  hereafter.  When  I 
order  a  pair  of  shoes,  I  decide  beforehand  what  kind  of  shoes 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  "29 

they  arc  to  be — court  pumps  or  strong  walking-shoes  ;  and 
I  don't  ask  the  shoemaker  to  give  me  a  preliminary  lecture 
upon  tlie  different  purposes  of  locomotion  to  which  leather 
can  be  applied.  If,  Sir  Peter,  you  want  Kenelm  to  scribble 
lackadaisical  poems,  listen  to  Parson  John  ;  if  you  want  to 
fill  his  head  with  pastoral  rubbisli  about  innocent  love,  which 
may  end  in  marrying  the  Miller's  Daughter,  listen  to  Parson 
John  ;  if  you  want  him  to  enter  life  a  soft-headed  greenhorn, 
who  will  sign  any  bill  carrying  fifty  per  cent,  to  which  a 
young  scamp  asks  him  to  be  security,  listen  to  Parson  John  : 
in  fine,  if  you  wish  a  clever  lad  to  become  either  a  pigeon  or 
a  ring-dove,  a  credulous  booby  or  a  sentimental  milksop, 
Parson  John  is  the  best  adviser  you  can  have." 

"  But  I  don't  want  my  son  to  ripen  into  either  of  those 
imbecile  developments  of  species." 

"  Then  don't  listen  to  Parson  John  ;  and  there's  an  end 
of  the  discussion." 

"  No,  there  is  not.  I  have  not  heard  your  advice  what  to 
do  if  John's  advice  is  not  to  be  taken." 

Mr.  Mivers  hesitated.     He  seemed  puzzled. 

"The  fact  is,"  said  the  Parson,  "that  Mivers  got  up 
'The  Londoner'  upon  a  principle  that  regulates  his  own 
mind, — find  fault  with  the  way  everything  is  done,  but  never 
commit  yourself  by  saying  how  anything  can  be  done 
better." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Mivers,  candidly.  "The  destructive 
order  of  mind  is  seldom  allied  to  the  constructive.  I  and 
'The  Londoner '  are  destructive  by  nature  and  by  policy. 
We  can  reduce  a  building  into  rubbish,  but  we  don't  profess 
to  turn  rubbish  into  a  building.  We  are  critics,  and,  as  you 
say,  not  such  fools  as  to  commit  ourselves  to  the  proposition 
of  amendments  that  can  be  criticised  by  others.  Neverthe- 
less, for  your  sake,  cousin  Peter,  and  on  the  condition  that  if 
I  give  my  advice  you  will  never  say  that  I  gave  it,  and  if  you 
take  it,  that  you  will  never  reproach  me  if  it  turns  out,  as 
most  advice  does,  very  ill — I  will  depart  from  my  custom 
and  hazard  my  opinion." 

"  I  accept  the  conditions." 

"  Well,  then,  witli  every  new  generation  there  springs 
up  a  new  order  of  ideas.  The  earlier  the  age  at  Avhich  a 
man  seizes  the  ideas  that  will  influence  his  own  generation, 
the  more  he  has  a  start  in  the  race  with  his  contemporaries. 
If  Kenelm  comprehends  at  sixteen  those  intellectual  signs 
of  the  time  which,  when  he  goes  up  to  college,  he  will  find 


3o'  KENELM  C/nLLLVGLY. 

young  men  of  eighteen  or  twenty  only  \n%X. prepared  Xo  com- 
])reliend,  he  will  produce  a  deep  impression  of  his  powers 
for  reasoning,  and  their  adaptation  to  actual  life,  which  will 
be  of  great  service  to  him  later.  Now  the  ideas  that  in- 
fluence the  mass  of  the  rising  generation  never  have  their 
well-head  in  the  generation  itself.  They  have  their  source 
in  the  generation  before  them,  generally  in  a  small  minor- 
ity, neglected  or  contemned  by  the  great  majority  which 
adopt  them  later.  Tliercfore  a  lad  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  if 
he  wants  to  get  at  such  ideas,  must  come  into  close  contact 
with  sonic  superior  mind  in  which  they  were  conceived 
twenty  or  thirty  years  before.  I  am  consequently  for  plac- 
ing Kenelm  with  a  person  from  whom  the  new  ideas  can  be 
learned.  I  am  also  for  his  being  placed  in  the  metropolis 
during  the  process  of  this  initiation.  With  such  introduc- 
tions as  are  at  our  command,  he  may  come  in  contact  not 
only  with  new  ideas,  but  Avith  eminent  men  in  all  vocations. 
It  is  a  great  thing  to  mix  betimes  with  clever  people.  One 
picks  their  brains  unconsciously.  There  is  another  advan- 
tage, and  not  a  small  one,  in  this  early  entrance  into  g(^od 
society.  A  youth  learns  manners,  self-possession,  readiness 
of  resource  ;  and  he  is  much  less  likely  to  get  into  scrapes 
and  contract  tastes  for  low  vices  and  mean  dissipation,  when 
he  comes  into  life  wholly  his  own  master,  after  having 
acqviired  a  predilection  for  refined  companionship,  under 
the  guidance  of  those  competent  to  select  it.  There,  I  have 
talked  myself  out  of  breath.  And  you  had  better  decide  at 
once  in  favor  of  my  advice  ;  for  as  I  am  of  a  contradictory 
temperament,  myself  of  to-morrow  may  probably  contradict 
myself  of  to-day." 

Sir  Peter  was  greatly  impressed  with  his  cousin's  argu- 
mentative eloquence. 

The  Parson  smoked  his  cutty-pipe  in  silence  until  ap- 
pealed to  by  Sir  Peter,  and  he  then  said,  "  In  this  pro- 
gramme of  education  for  a  Christian  gentleman,  tlic>  part  of 
Christian  seems  to  me  left  out." 

*'  The  tendency  of  the  age,"  observed  Mr.  Mivers,  calmly, 
"is  towards  that  omission.  Secular  education  is  the  neces- 
sary reaction  from  the  special  theological  training  which 
arose  in  the  dislike  of  one  set  of  Christians  to  the  teaching 
of  another  set ;  and  as  these  antagonists  will  not  agree  how 
religion  is  to  be  taught,  either  there  must  be  no  teaching  at 
all,  or  religion  must  be  eliminated  from  the  tuition." 

"  That  may  do  very  well  for  some  liuge  system  of  national 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY.  31 

education,"  said  Sir  Peter,  "  but  it  does  not  apply  to  Kenelm, 
as  one  of  a  family  all  of  whose  members  belong  to  the  Estab- 
lished Church.  He  may  be  taught  tlie  creed  of  his  forefa- 
thers without  offending  a  Dissenter." 

"  Which  Established  Church  is  he  to  belong  to  ?  "  asked 
Mr.  Mivers, — "  High  Church,  Low  Church,  Broad  Church, 
Puseyite  Church,  Ritualistic  Church,  or  any  other  Estab- 
lished Church  that  may  be  coming  into  fashion  ?" 

"  Pshaw  !  "  said  the  Parson.  "  That  sneer  is  out  of  place. 
You  know  very  well  that  one  merit  of  our  Church  is  the 
spirit  of  toleration,  which  does  not  magnify  every  variety  of 
opinion  into  a  heresy  or  a  schism.  But  if  Sir  Peter  sends 
his  son  at  the  age  of  sixteen  to  a  tutor  who  eliminates  the 
religion  of  Christianity  from  his  teaching,  he  deserves  to  be 
thrashed  within  an  inch  of  his  life  ;  and,"  continued  the 
Parson,  eyeing  Sir  Peter  sternly,  and  mechanically  turning 
up  his  cuffs,  "I  should  /ike  to  thrash  him." 

"Gently,  John,"  said  Peter,  recoiling;  "gently,  my  dear 
kinsman.  My  heir  shall  not  be  educated  as  a  heathen,  and 
Mivers  is  only  bantering  us.  Come,  Mivers,  do  you  happen 
to  know  among  your  London  friends  some  man  who,  though 
a  scholar  and  a  man  of  the  world,  is  still  a  Christian  ? " 

"A  Christian  as  by  law  established?" 

"Well- yes." 

"And  who  will  receive  Kenelm  as  a  pupil  ?" 

"Of  course  I  am  not  putting  such  questions  to  you  out 
of  idle  curiosity." 

"  I  know  exactly  the  man.  He  was  originally  intended 
for  orders,  and  is  a  very  learned  theologian.  He  relin- 
quished the  thought  of  the  clerical  profession  on  succeed- 
ing to  a  small  landed  estate  by  the  sudden  death  of  an  elder 
brother.  He  then  came  to  London  and  bought  experience  : 
that  is,  he  was  naturally  generous — he  became  easily  taken 
in — got  into  difficulties — the  estate  was  transferred  to  trus- 
tees for  the  benefit  of  creditors,  and  on  the  payment  of  ^"400 
a  year  to  himself.  By  this  time  he  was  married  and  had 
tw^o  children.  He  found  the  necessity  of  employing  his  pen 
in  order  to  add  to  his  income,  and  is  one  of  the  ablest  con- 
tributors to  the  periodical  press.  He  is  an  elegant  scholar, 
an  effective  writer,  much  courted  by  public  men,  a  thorough 
gentleman,  has  a  pleasant  house,  and  receives  the  best  so- 
ciety. Having  been  once  taken  in,  he  defies  any  one  to  take 
him  in  again.  His  experience  was  not  bought  too  dearly. 
No  more  acute  and  accomplished  man  of  the  world.     The 


32  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

three  hundred  a  year  or  so  that  you  would  pay  for  Kenelm 
would  suit  him  very  well.  His  name  is  Wclby,  and  he  lives 
in  Chester  Square." 

"  No  doubt  he  is  a  contributor  to  '  The  Londoner,' "  said 
the  Parson,  sarcastically. 

"  True.  He  writes  our  classical,  theological,  and  meta- 
physical articles.  Suppose  I  invite  him  to  come  here  for  a 
day  or  two,  and  you  can  see  him  and  judge  for  yourself.  Sir 
Peter  ?  " 

"  Do." 


CHAPTER   X. 


Mr.  Welby  arrived  and  pleased  everybody.  A  man  of 
the  happiest  manners,  easy  and  courteous.  There  was  no 
pedantry  in  him,  yet  you  could  soon  see  that  his  reading 
covered  an  extensive  surface,  and  here  and  there  had  dived 
deeply.  He  enchanted  the  Parson  by  his  comments  on  St. 
Chrysostom  ;  he  dazzled  Sir  Peter  with  his  lore  in  the  an- 
tiquities of  ancient  Britain  ;  he  captivated  Kenelm  by  his 
readiness  to  enter  into  that  most  disputatious  of  sciences 
called  metaphysics  ;  while  for  Lady  Chillingly,  and  the  three 
sisters  who  were  invited  t(j  meet  him,  he  was  more  entertain- 
ing, but  not  less  instructive.  Equally  at  home  in  novels  and 
in  good  books,  he  gave  to  tlie  spinsters  a  list  of  innocent 
works  in  either  ;  while  for  Lady  Chillingly  he  sparkled  with 
anecdotes  of  fashionable  life,  the  newest  bons  mots,  the  latest 
scandals,  hi  fact,  Mr.  Welby  was  one  of  those  brilliant  per- 
sons who  adorn  any  society  amidst  which  they  are  thrown. 
It  at  heart  he  was  a  disappointed  man,  the  disappointment 
was  concealed  by  an  even  serenity  of  spirits  ;  he  had  enter- 
tained high  and  justifiable  hopes  of  a  brilliant  career  and  a 
lasting  reputation  as  a  theologian  and  a  preacher  ;  the  suc- 
cession to  his  estate  at  the  age  of  twenty-three  had  changed 
the  nature  of  his  ambition.  The  charm  of  his  manner  was 
such  that  he  sprang  at  once  into  the  fashion,  and  became 
beguiled  by  his  own  genial  temperament  into  that  lesser 
but  pleasanter  kind  of  ambition  which  contents  itself  with 
social  successes  and  enjoys  the  present  hour.  When  his 
circumstances  compelled  him  tp  eke  out  his  income  by  lit- 
erary profits,  he  slid  into  the  grooves  of  periodical  composi- 
tion, and  resigned  all  ihoutrhts  of  the  labor  required  for  any 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  33 

complete  work,  which  might  take  much  time  and  be  attend- 
ed with  scanty  profits.  He  still  remained  very  popular  in 
society,  and  perhaps  his  general  reputation  for  ability  made 
him  fearful  to  hazard  it  by  any  great  undertaking.  He  was 
not,  like  Mivers,  a  despiser  of  all  men  and  all  things  ;  but 
he  regarded  men  and  things  as  an  indifferent  though  good- 
natured  spectator  regards  the  thronging  streets  from  a 
drawing-room  window.  He  could  not  be  called  blasc^  but 
he  was  thoroughly  dcsilliisionne.  Once  over-romantic,  his 
character  now  was  so  entirely  imbued  with  the  neutral  tints 
of  life  that  romance  offended  his  taste  as  an  obtrusion  of 
violent  color  into  a  sober  woof.  He  was  become  a  thorough 
Realist  in  his  code  of  criticism,  and  in  his  worldly  mode  of 
action  and  thought.  But  Parson  John  did  not  perceive  this, 
for  Welby  listened  to  that  gentleman's  eulogies  on  the  Ideal 
school  without  troubling  himself  to  contradict  them.  He 
had  grown  too  indolent  to  be  combative  in  conversation,  and 
only  as  a  critic  betrayed  such  pugnacity  as  remained  to  him 
by  the  polished  cruelty  of  sarcasm. 

He  came  off  with  flying  colors  through  an  examination 
into  his  Church  orthodoxy  instituted  by  the  Parson  and  Sir 
Peter.  Amid  a  cloud  of  ecclesiastical  erudition,  his  own 
opinions  vanished  in  those  of  the  Fathers.  In  truth,  he  was 
a  Realist  in  religion  as  in  everything  else.  He  regarded 
Christianity  as  a  type  of  existent  civilization,  which  ought 
to  be  reverenced,  as  one  might  recognize  the  other  types  of 
that  civilization — such  as  the  liberty  of  the  press,  the  repre- 
sentative system,  white  neckcloths  and  black  coats  of  an 
evening,  etc.  He  belonged,  therefore,  to  what  he  himself 
called  the  school  of  Eclectical  Christiology,  and  accommo- 
dated the  reasonings  of  Deism  to  the  doctrines  of  the 
Church,  if  not  as  a  creed,  at  least  as  an  institution.  Finally, 
he  united  all  the  Chillingly  votes  in  liis  favor  ;  and  when  he 
departed  from  the  Hall,  carried  off  Kenelm  for  his  initiation 
into  the  new  ideas  that  were  to  govern  his  generation. 


CHAPTER   XI. 


Kenelm  remained  a  year  and  a  half  with  this  distinguish- 
ed preceptor.  During  that  time  he  learned  much  in  book- 
lore  ;  he  saw  much,  too,  of  the  eminent  men  of  the  day,  in 


34  KEiYELM  CHILLINGLY. 

liter.ature,  the  law,  and  the  senate.  He  saw,  also,  a  s;ood 
deal  of  the  fashionable  world.  Fine  ladies,  Avho  bad  been 
friends  of  his  mother  in  her  youth,  took  him  up,  counseled 
and  petted  him.  One  in  especial,  the  Marchioness  of  Glen- 
alvon,  to  whom  he  was  endeared  by  grateful  association. 
For  her  youngest  son  had  been  a  fellow-pupil  of  Kenelm's 
at  Merton  School,  and  Kenelm  had  saved  his  life  from  drown- 
ing. The  poor  boy  died  of  consumption  later,  and  her  grief 
for  his  loss  made  her  affection  for  Kenelm  vet  more  tender. 
Lady  Glenalvon  was  one  of  the  queens  of  the  London  world. 
Though  in  her  fiftieth  year,  she  was  still  veiy  handsome  : 
she  was  also  very  accomplished,  very  clever,  and  very  kind- 
hearted,  as  some  of  such  queens  are  ;  just  one  of  those 
women  invaluable  in  forming  the  manners  and  elevating 
the  character  of  young  men  destined  to  make  a  figure  in 
after-life.  But  she  was  very  angry  with  herself  in  thinking 
that  she  failed  to  arouse  any  such  ambition  in  the  heir  of 
the  Chillinglys. 

It  may  here  be  said  that  Kenelm  was  not  without  great 
advantages  of  form  and  countenance.  He  was  tall,  and  the 
youthful  grace  of  his  proportions  concealed  his  physical 
strength,  which  was  extraordinary  rather  from  the  iron  text- 
ure than  the  bidk  of  his  thews  and  sinews.  His  face,  though 
it  certainly  lacked  the  roundness  of  youth,  had  a  grave,  som- 
bre, haunting  sort  of  beauty,  not  artistically  regular,  but 
picturesque,  peculiar,  with  large  dark  expressive  eyes,  and 
a  certain  indescribable  combination  of  sweetness  and  melan- 
choly in  his  quiet  smile.  He  never  laughed  audibly,  but  he 
had  a  quick  sense  of  the  comic,  and  his  eye  would  laugh 
when  his  lips  were  silent.  He  would  say  queer,  droll,  unex- 
pected things,  which  passed  for  humor  ;  but,  save  for  that 
gleam  in  the  eye,  he  could  not  have  said  them  with  more 
seeming  innocence  of  intentional  joke  if  he  had  been  a  monk 
of  La  Trappe  looking  up  from  the  grave  he  was  digging  in 
order  to  utter  "memento  mori." 

That  face  of  his  was  a  great  "  take  in."  Women  thought 
it  full  of  romantic  sentiment— the  face  of  one  easily  moved 
to  love,  and  whose  love  would  be  replete  alike  with  poetry 
and  passion.  But  he  remained  as  proof  as  the  youthful 
Hippolytus  to  all  female  attraction.  He  delighted  the  Par- 
son by  keeping  up  his  practice  in  athletic  pursuits,  and  ob- 
tained a  reputation  at  the  pugilistic  school,  which  he  attend- 
ed regularly,  as  the  best  gentleman  boxer  about  town. 

He  made  many  acquaintances,  but  still  formed  no  friend- 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  35 

ships.  Yet  every  one  wlio  saw  him  much  conceived  affection 
for  him.  If  lie  did  not  return  that  affection,  he  did  not 
repel  it.  He  was  exceedingly  gentle  in  voice  and  manner, 
and  had  all  his  father's  placidity  of  temper — children  and 
dogs  took  to  him  as  by  instinct. 

On  leaving  Mr.  Welby's,  Kenelm  carried  to  Cambridge 
a  mind  largely  stocked  with  the  new  ideas  that  were  bud- 
ding into  leaf.  He  certainly  astonished  the  other  freshmen, 
and  occasionally  puzzled  the  mighty  Fellows  of  Trinity  and 
St.  John's.  But  he  gradually  withdrew  himself  much  from 
general  society.  In  fact,  he  was  too  old  in  mind  for  his 
years  ;  and  after  having  mixed  in  the  choicest  circles  of  a 
metropolis,  college  suppers  and  wine  parties  had  little  charm 
for  him.  He  maintained  his  pugilistic  renown  ;  and  on  cer- 
tain occasions,  when  some  delicate  undergraduate  had  been 
bullied  by  some  gigantic  bargeman,  his  muscular  Christian- 
ity nobly  developed  itself.  He  did  not  do  as  much  as  he 
might  have  done  in  the  more  intellectual  ways  of  academical 
distinction.  Still,  he  was  always  among  the  first  in  the  col- 
lege examinations  ;  he  won  two  university  prizes^  and  took 
a  very  creditable  degree,  after  which  he  returned  home,  more 
odd,  more  saturnine — in  short,  less  like  other  people — than 
when  he  had  left  Merton  School.  He  had  woven  a  solitude 
round  him  out  of  his  own  heart,  and  in  that  solitude  he  sate 
still  and  watchful  as  a  spider  sits  in  his  web. 

Whether  from  natural  temperament,  or  from  his  educa- 
tional training  under  such  teachers  as  Mr.  Mivers,  who  car- 
ried out  the  new  ideas  of  reform  by  revering  nothing  in  the 
past,  and  Mr.  Welby,  who  accepted  the  routine  of  the  pre- 
sent as  realistic,  and  pooh-poohed  all  visions  of  the  future 
as  idealistic,  Kenelm's  chief  mental  characteristic  was  a  kind 
of  tranquil  indifferentism.  It  was  difficult  to  detect  in  him 
either  of  those  ordinary  incentives  to  action — vanity  or  am- 
bition, the  yearning  for  applause  or  the  desire  of  power. 
To  all  female  fascinations  he  had  been  hitherto  star-proof. 
He  had  never  experienced  love,  but  he  had  read  a  good  deal 
about  it,  and  that  passion  seemed  to  him  an  unaccountable 
aberration  of  human  reason,  and  an  ignominious  surrender 
of  the  equanimity  of  thought  which  it  should  be  the  object 
of  masculine  natures  to  maintain  undisturbed.  A  very  elo- 
quent book  in  praise  of  celibacy,  and  entitled  "The  Ap- 
proach to  the  Angels,"  written  by  that  eminent  Oxford  schol- 
ar, Decimus  Roach,  had  produced  so  remarkable  an  effect 
upon  his  youthful  mind,  that,  had  he  been  a  Roman  Catholic, 


36  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

he  might  have  become  a  monk.  Where  lie  most  evinced 
firdor,  it  was  a  Icjgician's  ardor  for  abstract  tnitii — tliat  is, 
for  wliat  lie  considered  truth  ;  and  as  wliat  seems  truth  to 
one  man  is  sure  to  seem  falsehood  to  some  other  man,  this 
predilection  of  his  was  not  without  its  inconveniences  and 
dangers,  as  may  probably  be  seen  in  the  following  chapter. 
Meanwhile,  rightly  to  appreciate  his  conduct  therein,  I 
entreat  thee,  O  candid  Reader  (not  that  any  Reader  ever  is 
candid),  to  remember  that  he  is  brimful  of  new  ideas,  which, 
met  by  a  deep  and  hostile  undercurrent  of  old  ideas,  become 
more  provocatively  billowy  and  surging. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


There  had  been  great  festivities  at  Exmundham,  in  cele- 
bration of  the  honor  bestowed  upon  the  Avorld  by  the  fact 
that  Kenclm  Chillingly  had  lived  twenty-one  years  in  it. 

The  young  heir  had  made  a  speech  to  the  assembled 
tenants  and  other  admitted  revellers,  which  had  by  no  means 
added  to  the  exhilaration  of  the  proceedings.  He  spoke 
with  a  fluency  and  self-possession  which  were  surprising  in  a 
youth  addressing  a  multitude  for  the  first  time.  But  his 
speech  was  not  cheerful. 

The  principal  tenant  on  the  estate,  in  proposing  his 
health,  had  naturally  referred  to  the  long  line  of  his  ances- 
tors. His  father's  merits  as  a  man  and  landlord  had  been 
enthusiastically  commemorated,  and  manv  happy  auguries 
for  his  own  future  career  had  been  drawn,  partly  from  the 
excellences  of  his  parentage,  partly  from  his  own  youthful 
promise  in  the  honors  achieved  at  the  universitv. 

Kenelm  Chillingly  in  reply  largely  availed  himself  of 
those  new  ideas  which  were  to  influence  the  rising  genera- 
tion, and  with  Avhich  he  had  been  rendered  familiar  by  the 
journal  of  Mr.  Mivers  and  the  conversation  of  Mr.  Welby. 

He  brieflv  disposed  of  the  ancestral  part  of  the  question. 
He  observed  that  it  was  singidar  to  note  how  long  any  given 
family  or  dynasty  could  continue  to  flourish  in  any  given 
nook  of  matter  in  creation,  without  anv  exhibition  of  intel- 
lectual powers  beyond  those  displayed  by  a  succession  of 
vegetable  crops.     "It  is  certainly  true,"  he  said,  "that  the 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  37 

Chillinglys  have  lived  in  this  place  from  father  to  son  for 
about  a  fourth  part  of  the  history  of  the  world,  since  the  date 
Avhich  Sir  Isaac  Newton  assigns  to  the  Deluge.  But,  so  far 
as  can  be  judged  by  existent  records,  the  world  has  not  been 
in  any  way  wiser  or  better  for  their  existence.  They  were 
born  to  cat  as  long  ar  they  could  eat,  and  when  they  could 
eat  no  longer  they  died.  Not  that  in  this  respect  they  were 
a  whit  less  insignificant  than  the  generality  of  their  fellow- 
creatures.  Most  of  us  now  present,"  continued  the  youthful 
orator,  "are  only  born  in  order  to  die  ;  and  the  chief  con- 
solation of  our  wounded  pride  in  admitting  this  fact,  is  in 
the  probability  that  our  posterity  will  not  be  of  more  conse- 
quence to  the  scheme  of  nature  than  w^e  ourselves  are." 
Passing  from  that  philosophical  view  of  his  own  ancestors 
in  particular,  and  of  the  human  race  in  general,  Kenelm 
Chillingly  then  touched  with  serene  analysis  on  the  eulogies 
lavished  on  his  father  as  man  and  landlord. 

"As  man,"  he  said,  "my  father  no  doubt  deserves  all 
that  can  be- said  by  man  in  favor  of  man.  But  what,  at  the 
best,  is  man  ?  A  crude,  struggling,  imdeveloped  embryo,  of 
whom  it  is  the  highest  attribute  that  he  feels  a  vague  con- 
sciousness that  he  is  only  an  embryo,  and  cannot  complete 
himself  till  he  ceases  to  be  a  man  ;  that  is,  until  he  becomes 
another  being  in  another  form  of  existence.  We  can  praise  a 
dog  as  a  dog,  because  a  dog  is  a  completed  ens,  and  not  an  em- 
bryo. But  to  praise  a  man  as  man,  forgetting  that  he  is  only 
a  germ  out  of  which  a  form  wholly  different  is  ultimately  to 
spring,  is  equally  opposed  to  Scriptural  belief  in  his  present 
crudity  and  imperfection,  and  to  psychological  or  metaphys- 
ical examination  of  a  mental  construction  evidently  design- 
ed for  purposes  that  he  can  never  fulfil  as  man.  That  my 
father  is  an  embryo  not  more  incomplete  than  any  present, 
is  quite  true  ;  but  that,  you  will  see  on  reflection,  is  saying 
very  little  on  his  behalf.  Even  in  the  boasted  physical  form- 
ation of  us  men,  you  are  aware  that  the  best-shaped  amongst 
us,  according  to  the  last  scientific  discoveries,  is  only  a  de- 
velopment of  some  hideous  hairy  animal,  such  as  a  gorilla  ; 
and  the  ancestral  gorilla  itself  had  its  own  aboriginal  fore- 
father in  a  small  marine  animal  shaped  like  a  two-necked 
bottle.  The  probability  is  that,  some  day  or  other,  we  shall 
be  exterminated  by  a  new  development  of  species. 

"As  for  the  merits  assigned  to  my  father  as  landlord,  I 
must  respectfully  dissent  from  the  panegyrics  so  rashly  be- 
stowed  r.o  him.      For  all   sound  reasoners  must  concur  in 


33  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

this,  that  the  first  duty  of  an  owner  of  land  is  not  to  the  oc- 
cupiers to  whom  he  leases  it,  but  to  the  nation  at  large.  It 
is  his  duty  to  see  that  the  land  yields  to  the  community  the 
utmost  it  can  yield.  In  order  to  effect  this  object  a  landlord 
should  put  up  his  farms  to  competition,  exacting  the  highest 
rent  he  can  possibly  get  from  responsible  competitors. 
Competitive  examination  is  the  enlightened  order  of  the 
day,  even  in  professions  in  which  the  best  men  would  have 
qualities  that  defy  examination.  In  agriculture,  happily, 
the  principle  of  competitive  examination  is  nut  so  hostile  to 
the  choice  of  the  best  man  as  it  must  be,  for  instance,  in 
diplomacy,  where  a  Talleyrand  would  be  excluded  for 
knowing  no  language  but  his  own  ;  and  still  more  in  the 
army,  wliere  promotion  would  be  denied  to  an  officer  who, 
like  Marlborough,  could  not  spell.  But  in  agriculture  a 
landlord  has  only  to  inciuire  who  can  give  the  highest  rent, 
having  the  largest  capital,  subject  by  the  strictest  penalties 
of  law  to  the  conditions  of  a  lease  dictated  by  the  most  sci- 
entific agriculturists  under  penalties  fixed  by  the  most  cau- 
tious conveyancers.  By  this  mode  of  procedure,  reccm- 
mended  by  the  most  liberal  economists  of  our  age — barring 
those  still  more  liberal  who  deny  that  property  in  land  is 
any  property  at  all — by  this  mode  of  procedure,  I  say,  a 
landlord  does  his  duty  to  his  country.  He  secures  tenants 
who  can  produce  the  most  to  the  community  by  their  capi- 
tal, tested  through  competitive  examination  into  their 
bankers'  accoimts  and  the  security  they  can  give,  and 
through  the  rigidity  of  covenants  suggested  by  a  Liebig 
and  reduced  into  law  by  a  Chitty.  But  on  my  father's  land 
I  see  a  great  many  tenants  with  little  skill  and  less  capital, 
ignorant  of  a  Liebig  and  revolting  from  a  Chitty,  and  no 
filial  enthusiasm  can  induce  mc  honestly  to  say  that  my 
father  is  a  good  landlord.  He  has  preferred  his  affection 
for  individuals  to  his  duties  to  the  community.  It  is  not,  my 
friends,  a  question  whether  a  handful  of  farmers  like  your- 
selves go  to  the  workhouse  or  not.  It  is  a  consumer's  ques- 
tion. Do  you  produce  the  maximum  of  corn  to  the  con- 
sumer ? 

"  With  respect  to  myself,"  continued  the  orator,  warm- 
ing, as  the  cold  he  had  engendered  in  his  audience  became 
more  freezingly  felt — "with  respect  to  myself,  I  do  not 
deny  that,  owing  to  the  accident  of  training  for  a  very  faulty 
and  contracted  course  of  education,  I  have  obtained  what 
are    called  '  honors '  ai  llie  University  of  Cambridge;   but 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  39 

vou  must  not  regard  that  fact  as  a  promise  of  any  worth  in 
my  future  passage  through  life.  Some  of  the  most  useless 
persons — especially  narrow-minded  and  bigoted — have  ac- 
quired far  higher  honors  at  the  university  than  have  fallen 
to  my  lot. 

"  I  thank  you  no  less  for  the  civil  things  you  have  said 
of  me  and  my  family  ;  but  I  shall  endeavor  to  walk  to  that 
grave  to  which  we  are  all  bound  with  a  tranquil  indifference 
as  to  what  people  may  say  of  me  in  so  short  a  journey.  And 
the  sooner,  my  friends,  we  get  to  our  journey's  end,  the 
better  our  chance  of  escaping  a  great  many  pains,  troubles, 
sins,  and  diseases.  So  that  when  I  drink  to  your  good 
healths,  you  must  feel  that  in  reality  I  wish  you  an  early 
deliverance  from  the  ills  to  which  flesh  is  exposed,  and 
which  so  generally  increase  with  our  years,  that  good  health 
is  scarcely  compatible  with  the  decaying  faculties  of  old 
age.     Gentlemen,  your  good  healths  !  " 


CHAPTER   XIII. 


The  morning  after  these  birthday  rejoicings,  Sir  Peter 
and  Lady  Chillingly  held  a  long  consultation  on  the  pecu- 
liarities of  their  heir,  and  the  best  mode  of  instilling  into  his 
mind  the  expediency  either  of  entertaining  more  pleasing 
views,  or  at  least  of  professing  less  unpopular  sentiments — 
compatibly  of  course,  though  they  did  not  say  it,  with  the 
new  ideas  that  were  to  govern  his  century.  Having  come  to 
an  agreement  on  this  delicate  subject,  they  went  forth,  arm 
in  arm,  in  search  of  their  heir.  Kenelm  seldom  met  them 
at  breakfast.  He  was  an  early  riser,  and  accustomed  to  soV 
itary  rambles  before  his  parents  were  out  of  bed. 

The  worthy  pair  found  Kenelm  seated  on  the  banks  of  a 
trout-stream  that  meandered  through  Chillingly  Park,  dip- 
ping his  line  into  the  water,  and  yawning,  with  apparent 
relief  in  that  operation. 

"Does  fishing  amuse  you,  my  boy?"  said  Sir  Peter, 
heartilv. 

"  Not  in  the  least,  sir,"  answered  Kenelm. 

"  Then  why  do  you  do  it  ?  "  asked  Lady  Chillingly. 

"  Because  I  know  nothing  else  fhat  amuses  me  mqre." 


40  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

"Ah!  that  is  it,"  said  Sir  Peter;  "the  Avhole  secret  of 
Kenehii's  oddities  is  to  be  found  in  tliese  words,  my  dear  ; 
he  needs  amusement.  Voltaire  says  truly,  'amusement  is 
one  of  the  wants  of  man.'  And  if  Kenelm  could  be  amused 
like  other  people,  he  would  be  like  other  people." 

"  In  tiiat  case,"  said  Kenelm,  gravely,  and  extracting 
from  the  water  a  small  but  lively  trout,  which  settled  itself 
in  Lady  Chillingly's  lap — "  in  that  case  I  would  rather  not 
be  amused.  I  have  no  interest  in  the  absurdities  of  other 
people.  The  instinct  of  self-preservation  compels  me  to 
have  some  interest  in  my  own." 

"Kenelm,  sir,"  exclaimed  Lady  Chillingly,  with  an  ani- 
mation into  which  her  tranciuii  ladyship  was  very  rarely 
betrayed,  "take  away  that  horrid  damp  thing!  Put  down 
your  rod  and  attend  to  what  your  father  says.  Your  strange 
conduct  gives  us  cause  of  serious  anxiety." 

Kenelm  imhooked  the  trout,  deposited  the  fish  in  his 
basket,  and  raising  his  large  eyes  to  his  father's  face,  said, 
"  What  is  there  in  my  conduct  that  occasions  you  displea- 
sure ? " 

"Not  displeasure,  Kenelm,"  said  Sir  Peter,  kindly,  "but 
anxiety  ;  your  mother  has  hit  upon  the  right  Avord.  You 
see,  my  dear  son,  it  is  my  wish  that  you  should  distinguish 
yourself  in  the  world.  You  might  represent  this  county,  as 
your  ancestors  have  done  before.  I  had  looked  forward  to 
the  proceedings  of  yesterday  as  an  admirable  occasion  for 
your  introduction  to  your  future  constituents.  Oratory  is 
the  talent  most  appreciated  in  a  free  country,  and  why 
should  you  not  be  an  orator  ?  Demosthenes  says  that  de- 
livery, delivery,  delivery,  is  the  art  of  oratory  ;  and  your 
delivery  is  excellent,  graceful,  self-possessed,  classical." 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  father,  Demosthenes  does  not 
say  delivery,  nor  action,  as  the  word  is  commonly  rendered  ; 
he  says,  *  acting  or  stage-play  ' — vtt6xput1%  ;  the  art  by  which 
a  man  delivers  a  speech  in  a  feigned  character — whence  we 
get  the  word  hypocrisy.  Hypocrisy,  hypocrisy,  hypocrisy  ! 
is,  according  to  Demosthenes,  the  triple  art  of  the  orator. 
Do  you  wish  me  to  become  triply  a  hypocrite  ?" 

"Kenelm,  I  am  ashamed  of  you.  You  know  as  well  as 
\  do  that  it  is  only  by  metaphor  that  you  can  twist  the  word 
ascribed  to  the  great  Athenian  into  the  sense  of  hypocrisy. 
But  assuming  it,  as  you  sav,  to  mean  not  delivery,  but  act- 
ing, I  understand  why  your  debut  as  an  orator  was  not  suc- 
cessful.    Your  delivery  was  excellent,  your  acting  defective. 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  41 

An  orator  should  please,  conciliate,  persuade,  prepossess. 
You  did  the  reverse  of  all  this  ;  and  though  you  produced 
a  great  effect,  the  effect  was  so  decidedly  to  your  disadvan- 
tage, that  it  would  have  lost  you  an  election  on  any  hustings 
in  England."' 

"Am  I  to  understand,  my  dear  father,"  said  Kenelm,  in 
the  moiu'nful  and  compassionate  tones  with  which  a  pious 
minister  of  the  Church  reproves  some  abandoned  and  hoary 
sinner — "am  I  to  understand  that  you  would  commend  to 
your  son  the  adoption  of  deliberate  falsehood  for  the  gain 
of  a  selfish  advantage  ?" 

"Deliberate  falsehood  !  you  impertinent  puppy  !" 

"  Puppv  !  "  repeated  Kenelm,  not  indignantly  but  mus- 
ingly— "  puppy  ! — a  well-bred  puppy  takes  after  its  parents." 

Sir  Peter  burst  out  laughing. 

Lady  Chillingly  rose  with  dignity,  shook  her  gown,  un- 
folded her  parasol,  and  stalked  away  speechless. 

"  Now,  look  you,  Kenelm,"  said  Sir  Peter,  as  soon  as  he 
had  composed  himself.  "  These  quips  and  humors  of  yours 
are  amusing  enough  to  an  eccentric  man  like  myself,  but 
they  will  not  do  for  the  world  ;  and  how  at  your  age,  and 
with  the  rare  advantages  you  have  had  in  an  early  introduc- 
tion to  the  best  intellectual  society,  under  the  guidance  of  a 
tutor  acquainted  with  the  new  ideas  which  are  to  influence 
the  conduct  of  statismen,  you  could  have  made  so  silly  a 
speech  as  you  did  yesterday,  I  cannot  understand." 

"  My  dear  father,  allow  me  to  assure  you  that  the  ideas 
I  expressed  are  the  new  ideas  most  in  vogue — ideas  ex- 
pressed in  still  plainer,  or,  if  you  prefer  the  epithet,  still 
sillier  terms  than  I  employed.  You  will  find  them  instilled 
into  the  public  mind  by  'The  Londoner,'  and  by  most  intel- 
lectual journals  of  a  lilDeral  character." 

"  Kenelm,  Kenelm,  such  ideas  would  turn  the  world 
topsy-turvy." 

"  New  ideas  always  do  tend  to  turn  old  ideas  topsy-turvy. 
And  the  world,  after  all,  is  only  an  idea,  which  is  turned 
topsy-turvy  with  every  successive  century." 

"You  make  me  sick  of  the  word  ideas.  Leave  off  your 
metaphysics  and  study  real  life." 

"  It  is  real  life  which  I  did  study  under  Mr.  Welby.  He 
is  the  Archimandrite  of  Realism.  It  is  sham  life  which  you 
wish  m:."  to  studv.  To  oblige  you  I  am  willing  to  com- 
mence it.  I  daresav  it  is  verv  pleasant.  Real  life  is  not; 
on  the  c-op.trary — (lull."     And  Keuehn  yawned  again. 


42  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

"  Have  you  no  young  friends  among  your  fellow-colle- 
gians ?  " 

"  Friends  !  certainly  not,  sir.  But  I  believe  I  have  some 
enemies,  who  answer  the  same  purpose  as  friends,  only 
they  don't  hurt  one  so  much." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  lived  alone  at  Cam- 
bridge ?  " 

"  No,  I  lived  a  good  deal  with  Aristophanes,  and  a  lit- 
tle with  Conic  Sections  and  Hydrostatics." 

"Books.     Dry  company." 

"  More  innocent,  at  least,  than  moist  company." 

"  Did  you  ever  get  drunk,  sir?" 

"  Drunk  !  I  tried  to  do  so  once  with  the  young  compan- 
ions whom  you  would  commend  to  me  as  friends.  I  don't 
think  I  succeeded,  but  I  woke  with  a  headache.  Real  life 
at  college  abounds  with  headache." 

"  Kenelm,  my  boy,  one  thing  is  clear — you  must  travel." 

"As  you  please,  sir.  Marcus  Antoninus  says  that  it  is 
all  one  to  a  stone  whether  it  be  throwm  upwards  or  down- 
wards.    When  shall  I  start  ?  " 

"Very  soon.  Of  course,  there  are  preparations  to 
make  ;  you  should  have  a  travelling  companion.  I  don't 
mean  a  tutor — you  are  too  clever  and  too  steady  to  need 
one — but  a  pleasant,  sensible,  well-mannered  young  person 
of  your  own  age." 

"  My  own  age — male  or  female  ?  " 

Sir  Peter  tried  hard  to  frown.  The  utmost  he  could  do 
was  to  reply  gravely,  "  Female  !  If  I  said  you  were  too 
steady  to  need  a  tutor,  it  was  because  you  have  hitherto 
seemed  less  likely  to  be  led  out  of  your  way  by  female  al- 
lurements. Among  your  other  studies  may  I  inquire  if 
you  liave  included  that  which  no  man  has  ever  yet  thor- 
oughly mastered — the  study  of  woman  ?  " 

"Certainly.   Do  you  object  to  my  catching  another  trout? " 

"Trout  be blest,  or  the  reverse.     So  you  have  studied 

woman.  I  should  never  have  thought  it.  Wliere  and  when 
did  you  commence  that  department  of  science  ?" 

"When?  ever  since  I  was  ten  years  old.  Where?  first 
in  your  own  house,  then  at  college.  Hush  ! — a  bite  !  "  And 
another  trout  left  its  native  element  and  alighted  on  Sir 
Peter's  nose,  whence  it  was  solemnly  transferred  to  the  bas- 
ket. 

"  At  ten  years  old,  and  in  my  own  house.  That  flaunt- 
ing hussy  Jane,  the  under-housemaid " 


KENELM    CIIILLINGL  Y. 


43 


*'  Jane !  No,  sir.  Pamela,  Miss  Byron,  Clarissa — 
females  in  Richardson,  who,  according  to  Dr.  Johnson, 
'taught  the  passions  to  move  at  the  command  of  virtue.'  I 
trust  for  your  sake  that  Dr.  Johnson  did  not  err  in  that 
assertion  ;  for  I  found  all  these  females  at  night  in  your  own 
private  apartments." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Sir  Peter,  "  that's  all." 

"  All  I  remember  at  ten  years  old,"  replied  Kenelm. 

"  And  at  Mr.  Welby's  or  at  college,"  proceeded  Sir  Peter, 
timorously,  "was  your  acquaintance  with  females  of  the 
same  kind  ?" 

Kenelm  shook  his  head.  "  Much  worse  ;  they  were  very 
naughty  indeed  at  college." 

"  I  should  think  so,  with  such  a  lot  of  young  fellows  run- 
ning after  them." 

"  Very  few  fellows  run  after  the  females  I  mean — rather 
avoid  them." 

"  So  much  the  better." 

"  No,  my  father,  so  much  the  worse  ;  without  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  those  females  there  is  little  use  going  to  col- 
lege at  all." 

"  Explain  yourself." 

"Every  one  who  receives  a  classical  education  is  intro- 
duced into  their  society — Pyrrha  and  Lydia,  Glycera  and 
Corinna,  and  many  more  all  of  the  same  sort ;  and  then  the 
females  in  Aristophanes,  what  do  you  say  to  them,  sir  ?  " 

"  Is  it  only  females  who  lived  two  thousand  or  three  thou- 
sand years  ago,  or  more  probably  never  lived  at  all,  whose 
intimacy  you  have  cultivated  ?  Have  you  never  admired 
any  real  women  ?" 

"  Real  women  !  I  never  met  one.  Never  met  a  woman 
who  was  not  a  sham,  a  sham  from  the  moment  she  is  told  to 
be  pretty-behaved,  conceal  her  sentiments,  and  look  fibs 
when  she  does  not  speak  them.  But  if  I  am  to  learn  sham 
life,  I  suppose  I  must  put  up  with  sham  women." 

"  Have  you  been  crossed  in  love,  that  you  speak  so  bit- 
terly of  the  sex  ?  " 

"  I  don't  speak  bitterly  of  the  sex.  Examine  any  woman 
on  her  oath,  and  she'll  own  she  is  a  sham,  always  has  been, 
and  always  will  be,  and  is  proud  of  it." 

"  I  am  glad  your  mother  is  not  by  to  hear  you.  You  will 
think  differently  one  of  these  days.  Meanwhile,  to  turn  to 
the  other  sex,  is  there  no  young  man  of  your  own  rank  with 
whom  you  would  like  to  travel  ?  " 


44  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

"Certainly  not.     I  hate  quarrelling." 

"  As  you  please.  But  you  cannot  go  quite  alone  ;  I  will 
find  you  a  good  travelling  servant.  I  nuist  write  to  town  to- 
day about  your  preparations,  and  in  another  weeli  or  so  I 
hope  all  will  be  ready.  Your  allowance  will  be  whatever 
you  like  to  fix  it  at  ;  you  have  never  been  extravagant,  and 
— boy — I  love  you.  Amuse  yourself,  enjoy  yourself,  and 
come  back  cured  of  your  oddities,  but  preserving  your 
honor." 

Sir  Peter  bent  down  and  kissed  his  son's  brow.  Kenelm 
was  moved  ;  he  rose,  put  his  arm  round  his  father's  shoulder, 
and  lovingly  said,  in  an  undertone,  "If  ever  I  am  tempted 
to  do  a  base  thing,  may  I  remember  whose  son  I  am— I 
shall  be  safe  then."  He  withdrew  his  arm  as  he  said  this, 
and  took  his  solitary  way  along  the  banks  of  the  stream,  for- 
getful of  rod  and  line. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 


The  young  man  continued  to  skirt  the  side  of  the  stream, 
until  he  reached  the  boundary  pale  of  the  park.  Here, 
placed  on  a  rough  grass  mound,  some  former  proprietor,  of 
a  social  temperament,  had  built  a  kind  of  belvedere,  so  as 
to  command  a  cheerful  view  of  tlie  high-road  below.  Me- 
chanically the  heir  of  the  Chillinglys  ascended  the  mound, 
seated  himself  within  the  belvedere,  and  leant  his  chin  on 
his  hand  in  a  thoughtful  attitude.  It  was  rarely  that  the 
building  was  honored  by  a  human  visitor — its  habitual  oc- 
cupants were  spiders.  Of  those  industrious  insects  it  was  a 
well-populated  colony.  Their  webs,  darkened  with  dust, 
and  ornamented  with  the  wings,  and  legs,  and  skeletons  of 
many  an  unfortunate  traveller,  clung  thick  to  angle  and  win- 
dow-sill, festooned  the  rickety  table  on  which  the  young 
man  leant  his  elbow,  and  described  geometrical  circles  and 
rJKjmboids  between  the  gaping  rails  that  formed  the  backs 
of  venerable  chairs.  One  large  black  spider — who  was  prob- 
ably the  oldest  inhabitant,  and  held  possession  of  the  best 
place  by  the  window,  ready  to  offer  perfidious  Avelcome  to 
every  winged  itinor.vnt  who  might  be  tempted  to  turn  aside 
fi\j:n  tb.e  high  road  for  the  sake  of  a  little  cool  and  repose — 


KEN  ELM  CinLLINGLY^  .   45 

rushed  from  its  innermost  penetralia  at  the  entrance  of  Ken- 
elm,  and  remained  motionless  in  the  centre  of  its  meshes, 
staring  at  him.  It  did  not  seem  quite  sure  whether  the 
stranger  was  too  big  or  not. 

"  It  is  a  wonderful  proof  of  the  wisdom  of  Providence," 
said  Kenelm,  "that  whenever  any  large  number  of  its  crea- 
tures forms  a  community  or  class,  a  secret  element  of  dis- 
union enters  into  the  hearts  of  the  individuals  foiming  the 
congregation,  and  prevents  their  co-operating  heartily  and 
effectually  for  their  common  interest.  '  The  fleas  would 
have  dragged  me  out  of  bed  if  they  had  been  unanimous,' 
said  the  great  Mr.  Curran  ;  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
if  all  the  spiders  in  this  commonwealth  would  unite  to  attack 
me  in  a  body,  I  should  fall  a  victim  to  their  combined  nip- 
pers. But  spiders,  though  inhabiting  the  same  region,  con- 
stituting the  same  race,  animated  by  the  same  instincts,  do 
not  combine  even  against  a  butterlly  ;  each  seeks  his  own 
special  advantage,  and  not  that  of  the  community  at  large. 
And  how  completely  the  life  of  each  thing  resembles  a  cir- 
cle in  this  respect,  that  it  can  never  touch  another  circle  at 
more  than  one  point.  Nay,  I  doubt  if  it  quite  touches  it 
even  there, — there  is  a  space  between  every  atom — self  is 
always  selfish ;  and  yet  there  are  eminent  masters  in  the 
Academe  of  New  Ideas  who  wish  to  make  us  believe  that  all 
the  working  classes  of  a  civilized  world  could  merge  every  dif- 
ference of  race,  creed,  intellect,  individual  propensities  and 
interests,  into  tlae  construction  of  a  single  web,  stocked  as  a 
larder  in  common  !  "  Here  the  soliloquist  came  to  a  dead 
stop,  and,  leaning  out  of  the  window^  contemplated  the  high- 
road. It  was  a  very  fine  high-road — straight  and  level,  kept 
in  excellent  order 'by  turn-pikes  at  every  eight  miles.  A 
pleasant  greensward  bordered  it  on  either  side,  and  under  the 
belvedere  the  benevolence  of  some  mediaeval  Chillingly  had 
placed  a  little  drinking-fountain  for  the  refreshment  of  w^ay- 
farers.  Close  to  the  fountain  stood  a  rude  stone  bench,  over- 
shadowed by  a  large  willow,  and  commanding  from  the  high 
table-ground  on  which  it  was  placed  a  wide  view  of  corn- 
fields, meadows,  and  distant  hills,  suffused  in  the  mellow  light 
of  the  summer  sun.  Along  that  road  there  came  successively 
a  wagon  filled  with  passengers  seated  on  straw — an  old  wo- 
man, a  pretty  girl,  two  children  ;  then  a  stout  farmer  going 
to  market  in  his  dog-cart  ;  then  three  flies  carrying  fares  to 
the  nearest  railway  station  ;  then  a  handsome  young  man  on 
horseback,  a  handsome  young  lady  by  his  side,  a  groom  be- 


46  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

hind.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  the  young  man  and  young  lady 
were  lovers.  See  it  in  his  ardent  looks  and  serious  lips  parted 
but  for  whispers  only  to  be  heard  by  her  ; — see  it  in  her  down- 
cast eyes  and  heightened  color.  "  'Alas!  regardless  of  their 
doom,'  "  muttered  Kenelm,  "  what  trouble  those  'little  victims' 
are  preparing  fur  themselves  and  their  progeny!  Would  1 
could  lend  tliem  Decimus  Roach's  '  Approach  to  the  An- 
gels'!  "  The  road  now  for  some  minutes  became  solitary 
and  still,  when  there  was  heard  to  the  right  a  sprightly  sort 
of  carol,  half  sung,  half  recited,  in  musical  voice,  with  a 
singularly  clear  enunciation,  so  that  the  words  reached  Ken- 
elm's  ear  distinctly.     They  ran  thus  : 

"  Black  Karl  looked  forth  from  his  cottage-door, 

He  looked  on  liie  forest  green  ; 
And  down  the  path,  with  his  dogs  before, 

Came  the  Ritter  of  Neirestein  : 
Singmg — singing — lustily  singing, 

Down  the  path,  with  his  dogs  before, 
Came  the  Ritter  of  Neirestein." 

At  a  voice  so  English,  attuned  to  a  strain  so  Germanic,  Ken- 
elm  pricked  up  attentive  ears,  and,  turning  his  eyes  down 
the  road,  beheld,  emerging  from  the  shade  of  beeches  that 
overhung  the  park  pales,  a  figure  that  did  not  altogether  har- 
monize with  the  idea  of  a  Ritter  of  Neirestein.  It  was, 
nevertheless,  a  picturesque  figure  enough.  The  man  was 
attired  in  a  somewhat  threadbare  suit  of  Lincoln  green,  with 
a  high-crowned  Tyrolese  hat  ;  a  knapsack  was  slung  behind 
his  shoulders,  and  he  was  attended  by  a  white  Pomeranian- 
dog,  evidently  foot-sore,  but  doing  his  best  to  appear  pro- 
ficient in  the  chase  bv  limping  some  yards  in  advance  of  his 
master  and  sniffing  into  the  hedges  for  rats  and  mice  and 
such  small  deer. 

By  the  time  the  pedestrian  had  reached  to  the  close  of 
his  refrain  he  had  gained  the  fountain,  and  greeted  it  with 
an  exclamation  of  pleasure.  Slipping  the  knapsack  from 
his  shoulder,  he  filled  the  iron  ladle  attached  to  the  basin. 
He  then  called  to  the  dog  by  the  name  of  Max,  and  held  the 
ladle  for  him  to  drink.  Not  till  the  animal  had  satisfied  his 
thirst  did  the  master  assuage  his  own.  Then  lifting  his  hat 
and  bathing  his  temples  and  face,  the  pedestrian  seated 
himself  on  the  bench,  and  the  dog  nestled  on  the  turf  at  his 
feet.  After  a  little  pause  the  wayfarer  began  again,  though 
in  a  lower  and  slower  tone,  to  chant  his  refrain,  and  pro- 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  47 

ceeded,  with  abrupt  snatches,  to  link  the  verse  on  to 
another  stanza.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  either  endeavor- 
inc-  to  remember  or  to  invent,  and  it  seemed  ratlier  like  the 
latter  and  more  laborious  operation  of  the  mind. 

'• '  Why  on  foot,  why  on  foot,  Ritter  Karl,'  quoth  he, 
'  And  not  on  thy  palfrey  gray  ?  ' 

Palfrey  gray — hum — gray. 

'  Tlie  run  of  ill  luck  was  too  strong  for  me, 
And  has  galloped  my  steed  away.' 

That  will  do— good  !  " 

"  Good  indeed  !  He  is  easily  satisfied,"  muttered  Kenelm. 
"  But  such  pedestrians  don't  pass  the  road  every  day.  Let 
us  talk  to  him."  So  saying,  he  slipped  quietly  out  of  the 
window,  descended  the  mound,  and,  letting  himself  into  the 
road  by  a  screened  wicket-gate,  took  his  noiseless  stand  be- 
hind the  wayfarer  and  beneath  the  bowery  willow. 

The  man  had  now  sunk  into  silence.  Perhaps  he  had 
tired  himself  of  rhymes  ;  or  perhaps  the  mechanism  of  verse- 
making  had  been  replaced  by  that  kind  of  sentiment,  or  that 
kind  of  reverie,  which  is  common  to  the  temperaments  of 
those  who  indulge  in  verse-making.  But  the  loveliness  of 
the  scene  before  him  had  caught  his  eye  and  fixed  it  into  an 
intent  gaze  upon  wooded  landscapes  stretching  farther  and 
farther  to  the  rano-e  of  hills  on  which  the  heaven  seemed  to 
rest. 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  the  rest  of  that  German  ballad," 
said  a  voice,  abruptly. 

The  wayfarer  started,  and,  turning  round,  presented  to 
Kenelm's  view  a  countenance  in  the  ripest  noon  of  manhood, 
with  locks  and  beard  of  a  deep  rich  auburn,  bright  blue  eyes, 
and  a  wonderful  nameless  charm  both  of  feature  and  ex- 
pression, verv  cheerful,  very  frank,  and  not  without  a  certain 
nobleness  of  character  which  seemed  to  exact  respect. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  my  interruption,"  said  Kenelm, 
lifting  his  hat ;  "  but  I  overheard  you  reciting  ;  and  thougli 
I  suppose  vour  verses  are  a  translation  from  the  German,  I 
don't  remember  anything  like  them  in  such  popular  German 
poets  as  I  happen  to  have  read." 

"  It  is  not  a  translation,  sir,"  replied  the  itinerant.  "  I 
was  onlv  trying  to  string  together  some  ideas  that  came  into 
my  head  this  fine  morning." 


48  KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY. 

"You  are  a  poet,  then  ?"  said  Kenelm,  seating  himself  on 
the  bench. 

"  I  dare  not  say  poet.     I  am  a  verse- maker." 

"Sir,  1  know  there  is  a  distinction.  Many  poets  of  the 
present  day,  considered  very  good,  arc  uncommonly  bad 
verse-makers.  For  my  part,  I  could  more  readily  imagine 
them  to  be  good  poets  if  they  did  not  make  verses  at  all. 
But  can  I  not  hear  the  rest  of  the  ballad  ?" 

"Alas!  the  rest  of  the  ballad  is  not  yet  made.  It  is 
rather  a  long  subject,  and  my  tlights  are  very  brief." 

"That  is  much  in  their  favor,  and  very  unlike  the  poetry 
in  fashion.  You  do  not  belong,  I  think,  to  this  neighbor- 
hood.    Are  you  and  your  dog  travelling  far?" 

"It  is  my  holiday  time,  and  I  ramble  on  through  the 
summer.  I  am  travelling  far,  for  I  travel  till  September. 
Life  amid  summer  fields  is  a  very  joyous  thing." 

"Is  it  indeed?"  said  Kenelm,  with  much  nai'veU.  "I 
should  have  thought  that,  long  before  September,  you  would 
have  got  very  much  bored  with  the  fields  and  the  dog  and 
yourself  altogether.  But,  to  be  sure,  you  have  tlie  resource 
of  verse-making,  and  that  seems  a  very  pleasant  and  absorb- 
ing occupation  to  those  who  practise  it — from  our  old  friend 
Horace,  kneading  labored  Alcaics  into  honey  in  his  summer 
rambles  among  the  watered  woodlands  of  Tibur,  to  Cardinal 
Richelieu,  employing  himself  on  French  rhymes  in  tlie  in- 
tervals between  chopping  off  noblemen's  heads.  It  does  not 
seem  to  signify  much  whether  the  verses  be  good  or  bad, 
so  far  as  the  pleasure  of  tlie  verse-maker  himself  is  con- 
cerned ;  for  Richelieu  was  as  much  cliarmed  with  his  occu- 
pation as  Horace  was,  and  his  verses  were  certainly  not 
Horatian." 

"  Surely  at  your  age,  sir,  and  with  your  evident  educa- 
tion  " 

"  Sav  culture  ;  that's  the  word  in  fasliion  nowadays." 

" — Well,  your  evident  culture — you  must  have  made 
verses. 

"  Latin  verses — yes — and  occasionally  Greek.  I  was 
obliged  to  do  so  at  school.     It  did  not  amuse  me." 

"  Try  English." 

Kenelm  shook  his  head.  "Not  I.  Every  cobbler  should 
stick  to  his  last." 

"Well,  put  aside  tlic  verse-making:  don't  you  find  a 
sensible  enjoyment  in  those  solitary  summer  walks,  when 
you  have  Nature  all  to  ycmrsclf — enjoyment  in  marking  all 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  45 

the  mobile,  evanescent  changes  in  her  face — her  laugh,  her 
smile,  her  tears,  her  very  frown  ? " 

"  Assuming  that  by  Nature  you  mean  a  mechanical  series 
of  external  phenomena,  I  object  to  your  speaking  of  a  ma- 
chinery as  if  it  were  a  person  of  the  feminine  gender — her 
laugh,  her  smile,  etc.  As  well  talk  of  the  laugh  and  smile 
of  a  steam-engine.  But  to  descend  to  common-sense.  I 
grant  there  is  some  pleasure  in  solitary  rambles  in  fine 
weather  and  amid  varying  scenery.  You  say  that  it  is  a 
holiday  excursion  that  you  are  enjoying  :  I  presume,  there- 
fore, that  you  have  some  practical  occupation  which  con- 
sumes the  time  that  you  do  not  devote  to  a  holiday  ?  " 

"Yes;  I  am  not  altogether  an  idler.  I  work  sometimes, 
though  not  so  hard  as  I  ought.  'Life  is  earnest,'  as  the  poet 
says.  But  I  and  my  dog  are  rested  now,  and  as  I  have  still 
a  long  walk  before  me,  I  must  wish  you  good-day." 

"  I  fear,"  said  Kenelm,  with  a  grave  and  sweet  politeness 
of  tone  and  manner,  which  he  could  command  at  times,  and 
which,  in  its  difference  from  merely  conventional  urbanity, 
was  not  without  fascination — "  I  fear  that  I  have  offended 
you  by  a  question  that  must  have  seemed  to  you  inquisitive 
— perhaps  impertinent  ;  accept  my  excuse  ;  it  is  very  rarely 
that  I  meet  any  one  who  interests  me  ;  and  you  do."  As  he 
spoke  he  offered  his  hand,  which  the  wayfarer  shook  very 
cordially. 

"  I  should  be  a  churl  indeed  if  yovn-  question  could  have 
given  me  offence.  It  is  rather  perhaps  I  who  am  guilty  of 
impertinence,  if  I  take  advantage  of  my  seniority  in  years, 
and  tender  you  a  counsel.  Do  not  despise  Nature,  or  re- 
gard her  as  a  steam-engine  ;  you  will  find  in  her  a  very 
agreeable  and  conversable  friend,  if  you  will  cultivate  her 
intimacy.  And  I  don't  know^  a  better  mode  of  doing  so  at 
your  age,  and  with  your  strong  limbs,  than  putting  a  knap- 
sack on  your  shoulders,  and  turning  foot-traveller,  like  my- 
self." 

"Sir,  I  thank  you  for  your  counsel  ;  and  I  trust  we  may 
meet  again,  and  interchange  ideas  as  to  the  thing  you  call 
Nature — a  thing  which  science  and  art  never  appear  to  see 
with  the  same  eyes.  If  to  an  artist  Nature  has  a  soul,  why, 
so  has  a  steam-engine.  Art  gifts  with  soul  all  matter  that 
it  contemplates  ;  science  turns  all  that  is  already  gifted  with 
soul  into  matter.     Good-day,  sir." 

Here  Kenelm  turned  back  abruptly,  and  the  traveller 
went  his  w^ay,  silently  and  thoughtfully. 

3 


50  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

Kenelm  retraced  his  steps  homeward  under  the  shade  of 
his  "  old  hereditary  trees."  One  might  have  tliought  his 
path  along  the  greenswards,  and  by  the  side  of  the  babbling 
rivulet,  was  pleasantcr  and  more  conducive  to  peaceful 
thoughts  than  tlie  broad,  dusty  thoroughfare  along  which 
plodded  the  wanderer  he  had  quitted.  But  the  man  ad- 
dicted to  reverie  forms  his  own  landscapes  and  colors  his 
own  skies. 

"It  is,"  soliloquized  Kenelm  Chillingly,  "a  strange 
yearning  I  have  long  felt — to  get  out  of  myself — to  get,  as 
it  were,  into  another  man's  skin — and  have  a  little  variety  of 
thought  and  emotion.  One's  self  is  always  the  same  self  ; 
and  that  is  why  I  yawn  so  often.  But  if  I  can't  get  into  an- 
other man's  skin,  the  next  best  thing  is  to  get  as  unlike 
myself  as  I  possibly  can  do.  Let  me  see  what  is  myself.  My- 
self is  Kenelm  Chillingly,  son  and  heir  to  a  rich  gentleman. 
But  a  fellow  with  a  knapsack  on  his  back,  sleeping  at  way- 
side inns,  is  not  at  all  like  Kenelm  Chillingly —especially  if 
he  is  very  short  of  money,  and  may  come  to  want  a  dinner. 
Perhaps  that  sort  of  fellow  may  take  a  livelier  view  of 
things  :  he  can't  take  a  duller  one.  Courage,  Myself, — you 
and  I  can  but  try." 

For  the  next  two  days  Kenelm  was  observed  to  be  un- 
usually pleasant.  lie  yawned  much  less  frequently,  walked 
with  his  father,  played  piquet  with  his  mother,  was  more 
like  other  people.  Sir  Peter  was  charmed  ;  he  ascribed  this 
happy  change  to  the  preparations  he  was  making  for  Ken- 
elm's  travelling  in  style.  The  proud  father  was  in  active 
correspondence  with  his  great  London  friends,  seeking  let- 
ters of  introduction  to  Kenelm  for  all  the  courts  of  Europe. 
Portmanteaus,  with  every  modern  convenience,  were  or- 
dered ;  an  experienced  courier,  who  could  talk  all  languages 
— and  cook  French  dishes  if  required — was'invited  to  name 
his  terms.  In  short,  every  arrangement  worthy  a  young 
patrician's  entrance  into  the  great  world  was  in  rapid  pro- 
gress, when  suddenly  Kenelm  Chillingly  disappeared,  leav- 
ing behind  him  on  Sir   Peter's  library-table  tire  following 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY. 


s« 


«•  My  very  dear  Father,— Obedient  to  your  desire,  I  depart  in  search 
of  real  life  and  real  persons,  or  of  the  best  imitations  of  them.  Forgive  me, 
I  beseech  you,  if  I  commence  that  search  in  my  own  way.  I  have  seen  enough 
of  ladies  and  gentlemen  for  the  present— they  must  be  all  very  much  alike  in 
every  part  of  the  world.  You  desired  me  to  be  amused.  I  go  to  try  if  that 
be  possible.  Ladies  and  gentlemen  are  not  amusing  ;  the  more  lady-like  or 
gentleman-like  they  are,  the  more  insipid  I  find  them.  My  dear  father,  I  go 
in  quest  of  adventure  like  Amadis  of  Gaul,  like  Don  Qui.xote,  like  Gil  Bias, 
like  Roderick  Random — like,  in  short,  the  only  real  people  seeking  real  life— 
the  people  who  never  existed  except  in  books.  I  go  on  foot,  I  go  alone.  I 
have  provided  myself  with  a  larger  amount  of  money  than  I  ought  to  spend, 
because  every  man  must  buy  experience,  and  the  first  fees  are  lieavy.  In  fact, 
I  have  put  fifty  pounds  into  my  pocket-book  and  into  my  purse  five  sovereigns 
and  seventetn  shillmgs.  This  sum  ought  to  last  me  a  year,  but  I  daresay  in- 
experience will  do  me  out  of  it  in  a  month,  so  we  will  count  it  as  nothing. 
Since  you  have  asked  me  to  fix  my  own  allowance,  I  will  beg  you  kindly  to 
commence  it  this  day  in  advance,  by  an  order  to  your  banker  to  cash  my 
cheques  to  the  amount  of  five  pounds,  and  to  the  same  amount  monthly — 
viz.,  at  the  rate  of  sixty  pounds  a  year.  With  that  sum  I  can't  starve,  and  if 
I  want  more  it  may  be  amusing  to  work  for  it.  Pray  don't  send  after  me,  or 
institute  inquiries,  or  disturb  the  household,  and  set  all  the  neighborhood 
talking,  by  any  mention  either  of  my  jinject  or  of  your  surprise  at  it.  I  will 
not  fail  to  write  to  you  from  time  to  time. 

"  You  wiil  judge  best  what  to  say  to  my  dear  mother.  If  you  tell  her 
the  truth,  which  of  course  I  should  do  did  I  tell  her  anything,  my  request  is 
virtually  frustrated,  and  I  shall  be  the  talk  of  the  county.  You,  I  know, 
don't  think  telling  fibs  is  immoral,  when  it  happens  to  be  convenient,  as  it 
would  be  in  this  case. 

"  I  expect  to  be  absent  a  year  or  eighteen  months  ;  if  I  prolong  my  trav:ls 
it  shall  be  in  the  way  you  proposed.  I  will  then  take  my  place  in  polite 
society,  call  upon  you  to  pay  all  expenses,  and  fib  on  my  own  account  to  any 
extent  required  by  that  world  of  fiction  which  is  peopled  by  illusions  and 
governed  by  shams. 

•'  Heaven  bless  you,  my  dear  father,  and  be  quite  sure  that  if  I  get  into 
any  trouble  requiring  a  friend,  it  is  to  you  I  shall  turn.  As  yet  I  have  no 
other  friend  on  earth,  and  with  prudence  and  good-luck  I  may  escape  the  in- 
fliction of  any  other  friend.  —  Yours  ever  affectionately,  KeiNELM. 

**  P.S. — Dear  father,  I  open  my  letter  in  your  library  to  say  again  '  Bless 
you,'  and  to  tell  you  how  fondly  I  kissed  your  old  beaver  gloves,  which  I 
found  on  the  table." 

When  Sir  Peter  came  to  that  postscript  he  took  off  his 
spectacles  and  wiped  them — they  were  very  moist. 

Then  he  fell  into  a  profound  meditation.  Sir  Peter  was, 
as  I  have  said,  a  learned  man  ;  he  was  also  in  some  things  a 
sensible  inan  ;  and  he  had  a  strong  sympathy  with  the  hum- 
orovis  side  of  his  son's  crotchety  character.  What  was  to  be 
said  to  Lady  Chillingly  ?  That  matron  was  quite  guiltless 
of  any  crime  which  should  deprive  her  of  a  husband's  con- 
fidence in  a  matter  relating  to  her  only  son.     She  was  a  vir- 


52  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

tiious  matron — morals  irreproachable — manners  dignified, 
and  she-baronety.  Any  one  seeing  her  for  the  first  time 
would  intuitively  say,  "  Your  ladyship."  Was  this  a  matron 
to  be  suppressed  in  any  well-ordered  domestic  circle  ?  Sir 
Peter's  conscience  loudly  answered,  "  No  ;  "  but  when,  put- 
ting conscience  into  his  pocket,  he  regarded  the  question 
at  issue  as  a  man  of  the  world.  Sir  Peter  felt  that  to  com- 
municate the  contents  of  his  son's  letter  to  Lady  Chillingly 
would  be  tlie  foolishest  thing  he  could  possibly  do.  Did  she 
know  that  Kenelrn  had  absconded  with  the  family  dignity 
invested  in  his  very  name,  no  marital  authority,  short  of 
such  abuses  of  power  as  constitute  the  offence  of  cruelty  in 
a  wife's  action  for  divorce  from  social  board  and  nuptial 
bed,  could  prevent  Lady  Chillingly  from  summoning  all  the 
grooms,  sending  them  in  all  directions,  with  strict  orders  to 
bring  back  the  runaway  dead  or  alive — the  walls  would  be 
placarded  with  handbills,  "Strayed  from  bis  home,"  etc, — 
the  police  would  be  telegraphing  private  instructions  from 
town  to  town — the  scandal  would  stick  to  Kenelm  Chillingly 
for  life,  accompanied  with  vague  hints  of  criminal  propen- 
sities and  insane  hallucinations — he  would  be  ever  after- 
wards pointed  out  as  "the  man  who  had  disappeared." 
And  to  disappear  and  to  turn  up  again,  instead  of  being 
murdered,  is  the  most  hateful  thing  a  man  can  do  ;  all  the 
newspapers  bark  at  him,  "Tray,  Blanche,  Sweetheart,  and 
all;"  strict  explanations  of  the  imseemly  fact  of  his  safe 
existence  are  demanded  in  the  name  of  public  decorum,  and 
no  explanations  are  accepted — it  is  life  saved,  character  lost. 

Sir  Peter  seized  his  hat  and  walked  forth,  not  to  delib- 
erate whether  to  fib  or  not  to  fib  to  the  wife  of  his  bosom, 
but  to  consider  what  kind  of  fib  would  the  most  quickly 
sink  into  the  bosom  of  his  wife. 

A  few  turns  to  and  fro  the  terrace  sufficed  for  the  con- 
ception and  maturing  of  the  fib  selected  ;  a  pi'oof  that  Sir 
Peter  was  a  practised  fibber.  Me  re-entered  the  house, 
passed  into  her  ladyship's  habitual  sitting-room,  and  said, 
with  careless  gayety,  "  My  old  friend  the  TJukeof  Clareville 
is  just  setting  off  on  a  tour  to  Switzerland  with  his  family. 
His  youngest  daughter,  Lady  Jane,  is  a  pretty  girl,  and 
would  not  be  a  bad  match  for  Kenelm." 

"  Lady  Jane,  the  youngest  daughter  with  fair  hair,  whom 
I  saw  last  as  a  very  charming  child,  nursing  a  lovely  doll 
presented  to  her  by  the  Empress  Eugenie.  A  good  match 
indeed  for  Kenelm." 


KENELM    CHILLINGLY.  53 

"  I  am  glad  you  agree  with  me.  Would  it  not  be  a  favor- 
able step  towards  that  alliance,  and  an  excellent  thing  for 
Kenelm  generally,  if  he  were  to  visit  the  Continent  as  one 
of  the  Duke's  travelling  party  ?" 

"  Of  course  it  would." 

"  Then  you  approve  what  I  have  done — the  Duke  starts 
the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  I  have  packed  Kenelm  off 
to  town,  with  a  letter  to  my  old  friend.  You  will  excuse 
all  leave-taking.  You  know  that  though  the  best  of  sons  he 
is  an  odd  fellow  ;  and  seeing  that  I  had  talked  him  into  it, 
I  struck  while  the  iron  was  hot,  and  sent  him  off  by  the  ex- 
press at  nine  o'clock  this  morning,  for  fear  that  if  I  allowed 
any  delay  he  would  talk  himself  out  of  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  Kenelm  is  actually  gone  ?  Good 
gracious  !  " 

Sir  Peter  stole  softly  from  the  room,  and,  summoning  his 
valet,  said,  "  I  have  sent  Mr.  Chillingly  to  London.  Pack 
up  the  clothes  he  is  likely  to  want,  so  that  he  can  have  them 
sent  at  once,  whenever  he  writes  for  them." 

And  thus,  by  a  judicious  violation  of  truth  on  the  part  of 
his  father,  that  exemplary  truth-teller  Kenelm  Chillingly 
saved  the  honor  of  his  house  and  his  own  reputation  from 
the  breath  of  scandal  and  the  inquisition  of  the  police.  He 
was  not  "the  man  who  had  disappeared." 


BOOK  II. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Kenelm  Chillingly  had  quitted  the  paternal  home  at 
daybreak,  before  any  of  the  household  was  astir. 

"  Unquestionably,"  said  he,  as  he  walked  along  the  soli- 
tarv  lanes — "  unquestionably  I  begin  the  world  as  poets  be- 
gin poetry,  an  imitator  and  a  plagiarist.  1  am  imitating  an 
itinerant  verse-maker,  as,  no  doubt,  he  began  by  imitating 
some  other  maker  of.  verse.  But  if  there  be  anything  in 
me,  it  wiil  work  itself  out  in  original  form.  And,  after 
all,  the  verse-maker  is  not  the  inventor  of  ideas.  Adventure 
on  foot  is  a  notion  that  remounts  to  the  age  of  fable.  Her- 
cules, for  instance, — that  was  the  way  in  which  he  got  to 
heaven,  as  a  foot-traveller.  How  solitary  the  world  is  at  this 
hour  !  Is  it  not  for  that  reason  that  this  is  of  all  hours  the 
most  beautiful  ? " 

Here  he  paused,  and  looked  around  and  above.  It  was  the 
very  height  of  summer.  The  sun  was  just  rising  over  gentle 
sloping  uplands.  All  the  dews  on  the  hedgerows  sparkled. 
There  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  heavens.  Uprose  from  the 
green  blades  of  the  corn  a  solitary  skylark.  His  voice  woke 
up  the  other  birds.  A  few  minutes  more,  and  the  joyous 
concert  began.  Kenelm  reverently  doffed  his  hat  and  bowed 
his  head  in  mute  homage  and  thanksgiving. 


CHAPTER    II. 


About  nine  o'clock  Kenelm  entered  a  town  some  twelve 
miles  distant  from  his  father's  house,  and  towards  which  he 
had  designedly  made  his  way,  because  in  that  town  he  was 
scarcely  if  at  all  known  by  sight,  and  he  might  there  make 
the  purchases  he  required  without  attracting  any  marked  ob- 
servation.    He  had  selected  for  his  travelling  costume  a 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  5.5 

shooting-dress,  as  the  simplest  and  least  likely  to  belong  to 
his  rank  as  a  gentleman.  But  still  in  its  very  cut  there  was 
an  air  of  distinction,  and  every  laborer  he  had  met  on  the 
way  had  touched  his  hat  to  hirn.  Besides,  who  wears  a 
shooting-dress  in  the  middle  of  June,  or  a  shooting-dress  at 
all,  unless  he  be  either  a  gamekeeper  or  a  gentleman 
licensed  to  shoot  ? 

Kenelm  entered  a  large  store-shop  for  ready-made  clothes, 
and  purchased  a  suit,  such  as  might  be  worn  on  Sundays  by 
a  small  country  yeoman  or  tenant-farmer  of  a  petty  holding, 
■ — a  stout  coarse  broadcloth  upper  garment,  half  coat,  half 
jacket,  with  waistcoat  to  match,  strong  corduroy  trousers,  a 
smart  Belcher  neckcloth,  with  a  small  stock  of  linen  and 
woollen  socks  in  harmony  with  the  other  raiment.  He  bought 
also  a  leathern  knapsack,  just  big  enough  to  contain  this 
wardrobe,  and  a  couple  of  books,  which,  with  his  combs  and 
brushes,  he  had  brought  away  in  his  pockets.  For  among 
all  his  trunks  at  home  tliere  was  no  knapsack. 

These  purchases  made  and  paid  for,  he  passed  quickly 
through  the  town,  and  stopped  at  a  humble  inn  at  the  out- 
skirts, to  which  he  was  attracted  by  the  notice,  "  Refresh- 
ment  for  man  and  beast."  He  entered  a  little  sanded 
parlor,  which  at  that  hour  he  had  all  to  himself,  called  for 
breakfast,  and  devoured  the  best  part  of  a  fourpenny  loaf, 
with  a  couple  of  hard  eggs. 

Thus  recruited,  he  again  sallied  forth,  and  deviating  into 
a  thick  wood  by  the  roadside,  he  exchanged  the  habiliments 
with  which  he  had  left  home  for  those  he  had  purchased,  and 
by  the  help  of  one  or  two  big  stones  sunk  the  relinquished 
garments  into  a  small  but  deep  pool  which  he  was  lucky 
enough  to  find  in  a  bush-grown  dell  much  haunted  by  snipes 
in  the  winter. 

"  Now,"  said  Kenelm,  "  I  really  begin  to  think  I  have 
got  out  of  myself.  I  am  in  another  man's  skin  ;  for  what, 
after  all,  is  a  skin  bufa  soul's  clothing,  and  what  is  clothing 
but  a  decenter  skin  ?  Of  its  own  natiu-al  skin  every  civi- 
lized soul  is  ashamed.  It  is  the  height  of  impropriety  for 
anyone  but  the  lowest  kind  of  savage  to  show  it.  If  the 
purest  soul  now  existent  upon  earth,  the  Pope  of  Rome's 
or  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury's,  were  to  pass  down  the 
Strand  with  the  skin  which  nature  gave  to  it  bare  to  the 
eye,  it  would  be  brought  up  before  a  magistrate,  prosecuted 
by  the  Society  for  the  Suppression  of  Vice,  and  committed 
to  jail  as  a  public  nuisance. 


56  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

"  Decidedly  I  am  now  in  another  man's  skin.  Kenelm 
Chillingly,  I  no  longer 

Remain 

Yours  faithfully  ; 
But  am, 

With  profound  consideration. 

Your  obedient  humble  Servant." 

With  light  step  and  elated  crest,  the  wanderer,  thus  trans- 
formed, sprang  from  the  wood  into  the  dusty  thorough- 
fare. 

He  had  travelled  on  for  about  an  hour,  meeting  but  few 
other  passengers,  when  he  heard  to  the  right  a  loud  shrill 
young  voice,  "  Help,  help  ! — I  will  not  go — I  tell  you,  I  will 
not  !  "  Just  before  him  stood,  by  a  high  five-barred  gate,  a 
pensive  gray  cob  attached  to  a  neat-looking  gig.  The  bridle 
was  loose  on  the  cob's  neck.  The  animal  was  evidently 
accustomed  to  stand  quietly  when  ordered  to  do  so,  and  glad 
of  the  opportunity. 

The  cries,  "  Help,  help  ! "  were  renewed,  mingled  wiih 
louder  tones  in  a  rougher  voice,  tones  of  wrath  and  menace. 
Evidently  these  sounds  did  not  come  from  the  cob.  Kenelm 
looked  over  the  gate,  and  saw  a  few  yards  distant,  in  a  grass- 
field,  a  well-dressed  boy  struggling  violently  against  a  stout 
middle-aged  man  who  was  rudely  hauling  him  along  by  the 
arm. 

The  chivalry  natural  to  a  namesake  of  the  valiant  Sir 
Kenelm  Digby  was  instantly  aroused.  He  vaulted  over  the 
gate,  seized  the  man  by  the  collar,  and  exclaimed,  "  For 
shame,  wliat  are  you  doing  to  that  poor  boy  ? — let  him  go  !  " 

"Why  the  devil  do  you  interfere  ?"  cried  the  stout  man 
— his  eyes  glaring  and  his  lips  foaming  with  rage.  ''Ah, 
are  you  the  villain  ? — yes,  no  doubt  of  it.  I'll  give  it  to  vou, 
jackanapes  !  "  And  still  grasping  the  boy  with  one  hand, 
with  the  other  the  stout  man  darted  a  blow  at  Kenelm,  from 
which  nothing  less  than  the  practised  pugilistic  skill  and 
natural  alertness  of  the  youth  thus  suddenly  assaidted  could 
have  saved  his  eyes  and  nose.  As  it  was,  the  stout  man 
had  the  worst  of  it  ;  the  blow  was  parried,  returned  with  a 
dexterous  manoeuvre  of  Kenelm's  riijht  f6ot  in  Cornish 
fashion,  and  procunibit  humibos, — the  stout  man  lay  sprawling 
on  his  back.  The  boy,  thus  released,  seized  hold  of  Kenelm 
by  the  arm,  and  hurrying  him  along  up  the  field,  cried, 
"  Come,  come  before  he  gets  up  !  save  me  !  save  me  !  "     Ere 


R'ENEIM  CHILLINGLY.  57 

he  had  recovered  his  own  surprise,  the  boy  had  dragged 
Kenehn  to  the  gate,  and  jumped  into  the  gig,  sobbing  forth, 
"Get  in,  get  in.  I  can't  drive;  get  in,  and  drive— you. 
Quick  !  quick  !  " 

"  But,"  began  Kenelm. 

"Get  in,  or  I  shall  go  mad."  Kenelm  obeyed,  the  boy 
gave  him  the  reins,  and  seizing  the  whip  himself,  applied  it 
lustily  to  the  cob.  On  sprang  the  cob.  "  Stop — stop — 
stop,  thief  ! — villain  ! — Halloa  !  — thieves — thieves — thieves  ! 
— stop  !  "  cried  a  voice  behind.  Kenelm  involuntarily  turned 
his  head  and  beheld  the  stout  man  perched  upon  the  gate 
and  gesticulating  furiously.  It  was  but  a  glimpse  ;  again 
the  whip  was  plied,  the  cob  frantically  broke  into  a  gallop, 
the  gig  jolted  and  bumped  and  swerved,  and  it  was  not  till 
they  had  put  a  good  mile  between  themselves  and  the  stout 
man  that  Kenelm  succeeded  in  obtaining  possession  of  the 
whip,  and  calming  the  cob  into  a  rational  trot. 

"Young  gentleman,"  then  said  Kenelm,  "  perhaps  you 
will  have  the  goodness  to  explain." 

"  By-and-by  ;  get  on,  that's  a  good  fellow  ;  you  shall  be 
well  paid  for  it — well  and  handsomely." 

Quoth  Kenelm,  gravely,  "  I  know  that  in  real  life  pay- 
ment and  service  naturally  go  together.  But  we  will  put 
aside  the  payment  till  you  tell  me  what  is  to  be  the  service. 
And  first,  whither  am  I  to  drive  you  ?  We  are  coming  to  a 
place  where  three  roads  meet ;  which  of  the  three  shall  I 
take  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  ;  there  is  a  finger-post.  I  want  to 
get  to — but  it  is  a  secret  ;  you'll  not  betray  me.  Promise 
— swear." 

"  I  don't  swear  except  when  I  am  in  a  passion,  which,  I 
am  sorry  to  say,  is  very  seldom  ;  and  I  don't  promise  till  I 
know  what  I  promise  ;  neither  do  I  go  on  driving  runaway 
boys  in  other  men's  gigs  unless  I  know  that  I  am  taking 
them  to  a  safe  place,  where  their  papas  and  mammas  can 
get  at  them." 

"I  have  no  papa,  no  mamma,"  said  the  boy  dolefully, 
and  with  quivering  lips. 

"  Poor  boy  !  I  suppose  that  burly  brute  is  your  school- 
master, and  you  are  running  away  home  for  fear  of  a  flog- 

gins:-" 

The  boy  burst  out  laughing  ;  a  pretty  silvery  merry  laugh, 
it  thrilled  througli  Kenelm  Chillinglv.  "  No,  he  would  not 
flog  me  ;  he  is  not  a  schoolmaster  ;  he  is  worse  than  that." 

3* 


58  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

"  Is  it  possible  ?     What  is  he  ?" 

"An  uncle." 

"  Hum  !  uncles  are  proverbial  for  cruelty  ;  were  so  in  the 
classical  days,  and  Richard  III.  was  the  only  scholar  in  his 
family." 

"Eh  !  classical,  and  Richard  III.  !  "  said  the  boy,  startled, 
and  looking  attentively  at  the  pensive  driver.  "  Who  are 
you  !*  you  talk  like  a  gentleman." 

"I  beg  pardon.  I'll  not  do  so  again  if  I  can  help  it." 
*•  Decidedly,"  thought  Kenelm,  "  I  am  beginning  to  be 
amused.  What  a  blessing  it  is  to  get  into  another  man's 
skin,  and  another  man's  gig  too  !  "  Aloud,  "  Here  we  are  at 
the  finger-post.  If  you  are  running  away  from  your  uncle, 
it  is  time  to  inform  me  where  you  are  running  to." 

Here  the  boy  leaned  over  the  gig  and  examined  the  fin- 
ger-post.    I'hen  he  clapped  his  hands  joyfully. 

"  All  right  !  I  thought  so — 'To  Tor-Hadham,  eighteen 
miles.'     Tiiat's  tlie  road  to  Tor-Hadham." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  I  am  to  drive  you  all  that  way — 
eighteen  miles  ?  " 
'  "Yes." 

"  And  to  whom  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  by-and-by.  Do  go  on — do,  pray.  I 
can't  drive — never  drove  in  my  life — or  I  would  not  ask  you. 
Pray,  pray,  don't  desert  me  !  If  you  are  a  gentleman,  you 
will  not  ;  and  if  you  are  not  a  gentleman,  1  have  got  ;^io 
in  my  purse,  which  you  shall  have  when  I  am  safe  at  Tor- 
Hadham.  Dont  hesitate  ;  my  whole  life  is  at  stake  !  "  And 
the  boy  began  once  more  to  sob. 

Kenelm  directed  the  pony's  head  towards  Tor-Hadham, 
and  the  boy  ceased  to  sob. 

"  You  are  a  good,  dear  fellow,"  said  the  boy,  wiping  his 
eyes.  "  I  am  afraid  I  am  taking  you  very  much  out  of  your 
road." 

"I  have  no  road  in  particular,  and  would  as  soon  go  to 
Tor-Hadham,  wliich  I  have  never  seen,  as  anywhere  else. 
I  am  but  a  wanderer  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

*'  Have  you  lost  your  papa  and  mamma  too  ?  Why,  you 
are  not  much  older  than  I  am." 

"Little  gentleman,"  said  Kenelm,  gravely,  "I  am  just 
of  age  ;  and  you,  I  suppose,  are  about  fourteen." 

"What  fu'n  !  "  cried  the  boy,  abruptly.      "  Isn't  it  fum  ?" 

"  It  will  not  be  fun  if  I  am  sentenced  to  penal  servitude 
for  stealing  your  uncle's  gig,  and  robbing  his  little  nephew 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  59 

of  ^10.  By  the  by,  tliat  choleric  relation  of  yours  meant 
to  knock  down  somebody  else  when  he  struck  at  me.  He 
asked,  'Are  you  the  villain  ?"  Pray  who  is  the  villain?  he 
is  evidently  in  your  confidence." 

"Villain  !  he  is  the  most  honorable,  high-minded But 

no  matter  now^  ;  I'll  introduce  you  to  him  when  we  reach 
Tor-Hadham.     Whip  that  pony;  he  is  crawling." 

"  It  is  up-hill ;  a  good  man  spares  his  beast." 

No  art  and  no  eloquence  could  extort  from  his  young 
companion  any  further  explanation  than  Kenelm  had  yet 
received  ;  and  indeed,  as  the  journey  advanced,  and  they 
approached  their  destination,  both  parties  sank  into  silence. 
Kenelm  Avas  seriously  considering  that  his  first  day's  experi- 
ence of  real  life  in  the  skin  of  another  had  placed  in  some 
peril  his  own.  He  had  knocked  down  a  man  evidently  re- 
spectable and  well-to-do,  had  carried  off  that  man's  nephew, 
and  made  free  with  that  man's  goods  and  chattels — /.<?.,  his 
gig  and  horse.  All  this  might  be  explained  satisfactorily  to 
a  justice  of  the  peace,  but  how  ?  By  returning  to  his  former 
skin  ;  by  avowing  himself  to  be  Kenelm  Chillingly,  a  dis- 
tinguished university  medalist,  heir  to  no  ignoble  name  and 
some  ^10,000  a  year.  But  then  what  a  scandal  !  he  who 
abhorred  scandal ;  in  vulgar  parlance,  what  a  "  row  !  "  he  who 
denied  that  the  very  word  "  row  "  was  sanctioned  by  any 
classic  authorities  in  the  English  language.  He  would  have 
to  explain  how  he  came  to  be  found  disguised,  carefully  dis- 
guised, in  garments  such  as  no  baronet's  eldest  son — even 
thougli  that  baronet  be  the  least  ancestral  man  of  mark  whom 
it  suits  the  convenience  of  a  First  Minister  to  recommend  to 
the  Sovereign  for  exaltation  over  the  rank  of  Mister — was 
ever  beheld  in,  unless  he  had  taken  flight  to  the  gold-dig- 
gings. Was  this  a  position  in  which  the  heir  of  the  Chill- 
inglys,  a  distinguished  family,  whose  coat  of  arms  dated 
from  the  earliest  authenticated  period  of  English  heraldry 
under  Edward  III.  as  Three  Fishes  azur,  could  be  placed 
without  grievous  slur  on  the  cold  and  ancient  blood  of  the 
Three  Fishes  ? 

And  then  individually  to  himself,  Kenelm,  irrespectively 
of  the  Three  Fishes.  What  a  humiliation  !  He  had  put 
aside  his  respected  father's  deliberate  preparations  for  his 
entrance  into  real  life  ;  he  had  perversely  chosen  his  own 
walk  on  his  own  responsibility  ;  and  here,  before  half  the 
first  day  Avas  over,  what  an  infernal  scrape  he  had  walked 
himself  into  !     And  what  was  his  excuse  ?     A  wretched  little 


6o  KENELM  CHILLTNGLY. 

boy,  sobbing  and  chuckling  by  turns,  and  yet  who  was  clevei 
enougli  t(j  twist  Kcnelin  Chillingly  round  his  finger;  twist 
/liin  —  ii  man  who  thought  himself  so  much  wiser  than  his 
parents— a  man  who  had  gained  honors  at  the  University 
— a  man  of  the  gravest  temperament — a  man  of  so  nicely  a 
critical  turn  of  mind  that  there  was  not  a  law  of  art  or 
nature  in  which  he  did  not  detect  a  flaw, — tliat  he  should 
get  himself  into  this  mess  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  an 
uncomfortable  reflection. 

The  boy  himself,  as  Kenelm  glanced  at  him  from  time  to 
time,  became  impish  and  Will-of-the-Wisp-ish.  Sometimes 
he  laughed  to  himself  loudly,  sometimes  he  wept  to  himself 
quietly ;  sometimes,  neither  laughing  nor  Aveeping,  he 
seemed  absorbed  in  reflection.  Twice  as  they  came  nearer 
to  the  town  of  Tor-Hadham,  Kenelm  nudged  the  boy,  and 
said,  "  My  boy,  I  must  talk  with  you  ; "  and  twice  the  boy, 
withdrawing  his  arm  from  the  nudge,  had  answered  dream- 

"  Hush  !  I  am  thinking." 

And  so  they  entered  the  town  of  Tor-Hadham  ;  the  cob 
very  much  done  up. 


CHAPTER  HI. 


"Now,  young  sir,"  said  Kenelm,  in  a  tone  calm,  but 
peremptory — "now  we  are  in  the  town,  where  am  I  to 
take  you  ?  and  wherever  it  be,  there  to  say  good-bye." 

"  No,  not  good-bye.  Stay  with  me  a  little  bit.  I  begin  to 
feel  frightened,  and  I  am  so  friendless  ;  "  and  the  boy,  who 
had  before  resented  the  slightest  nudge  on  the  part  of 
Kenelm,  now  wound  his  arm  into  Kenelm's,  and  clung  to 
him  caressingly. 

I  don't  know  what  my  readers  have  hitherto  thought 
of  Kenelm  Chillingly,  but  amid  all  the  curves  and  windings 
of  his  whimsical  humor  there  was  one  way  that  went  straight 
to  his  heart — you  had  only  to  be  weaker  than  himself,  and 
ask  his  protection. 

He  turned  roimd  abruptly  ;  he  forgot  all  the  strangeness 
of  his  position,  and  replied,  "Little  brute  that  you  are,  I'll 
be  shot  if  I  forsake  you  if  in  trouble.  But  some  compassion 
is  also  due  to  the  cob — for  his  sake  say  where  we  are  to  stop." 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  6i 

"  I'm  sure  I  can't  say  ;  I  never  was  here  before.  Let  us 
go  to  a  nice  quiet  inn.   Drive  slowly — we'll  lookout  for  one." 

Tor-Hadiiani  was  a  large  town,  not  nominally  the  capital 
of  the  county,  but  in  point  of  trade,  and  bustle,  and  life, 
virtually  the  capital.  The  straight  street,  through  which 
the  cob  went  as  slowly  as  if  he  had  been  drawing  a  Tri- 
umphal Car  up  the  Sacred  Hill,  presented  an  animated  ap- 
pearance. The  shops  had  handsome  fac^ades  and  plate-glass 
windows  ;  the  pavements  exhibited  a  lively  concourse,  evi- 
dently not  merely  of  business,  but  of  pleasure,  for  a  large 
proportion  of  the  passers-by  was  composed  of  the  fair  sex, 
smartly  dressed,  many  of  them  young,  and  some  pretty.  In 
fact,  a  regiment  of  Her  Majesty's — the  Hussars  had  been 
sent  into  the  town  two  days  before,  and  between  the  officers 
of  that  fortunate  regiment,  and  the  fair  sex  in  that  hospitable 
town,  there  was  a  natural  emulation  which  should  make  the 
greater  number  of  slain  and  wounded.  The  advent  of  these 
heroes,  professional  subtracters  from  hostile,  and  multipliers 
of  friendly,  populations,  gave  a  stimulus  to  the  caterers  for 
those  amusements  which  bring  young  folks  together — arch- 
ery-meetings, rifle-shootings,  concerts,  balls,  announced  in 
bills  attached  to  boards  and  walls,  and  exposed  at  shop- 
windows. 

The  boy  looked  eagerly  forth  from  the  gig,  scanning 
especially  these  advertisements,  till  at  length  he  uttered  an 
excited  exclamation,  "Ah,  I  was  right — there  it  is  !  " 

"  There  what  is  ?  "  asked  Kenelm.  "  The  Inn  ?  "  His 
companion  did  not  answer,  but  Kenelm  following  the  boy's 
eyes  perceived  an  immense  hand-bill : 

"To-MORRow  Night  Theatre  opens, 
Richard  III.  Mr.  Compton." 

"  Do  just  ask  where  the  'theatre  is,"  said  the  boy,  in  a 
whisper,  turning  away  his  head. 

Kenelm  stopped  the  cob,  made  the  inquiry,  and  was  di- 
rected to  take  the  next  turning  to  the  right.  In  a  few  min- 
utes the  compo  portico  of  an  ugly  dilapidated  building, 
dedicated  to  the  Dramatic  Muses,  presented  itself  at  the 
angle  of  a  dreary  deserted  lane.  The  walls  were  placarded 
with  play-bills,  in  which  the  name  of  Compton  stood  forth 
as  gigantic  as  capitals  could  make  it.  The  boy  di^ew  a  sigh. 
"  Now,"  said  he,  "  let  us  look  out  for  an  inn  near  here — the 
nearest." 


62  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

No  inn,  however,  beyond  the  rank  of  a  small  and  ques- 
tionable-looking public-house,  was  apparent,  until  at  a  dis- 
tance somewhat  remote  from  the  theatre,  and  in  a  quaint, 
old-fashioned,  deserted  square,  a  neat  newly-whitewashed 
house  displayed  upon  its  frontispiece,  in  large  black  letters 
of  funereal  aspect,  "Temperance  Hotel." 

"  Stop,"  said  the  boy  ;  "  don't  you  think  that  would  suit 
us  ?  it  looks  quiet." 

"  Could  not  look  more  quiet  if  it  were  a  tombstone,"  re- 
plied Kenelm. 

The  boy  put  his  hand  upon  the  reins  and  stopped  the 
cob.  The  cob  was  in  that  condition  that  the  slightest  touch 
sufficed  to  stop  him,  though  he  turned  his  head  somewhat 
ruefully,  as  if  in  doubt  whether  hay  and  corn  would  be 
within  the  regulations  of  a  Temperance  Hotel.  Kenelm 
descended  and  entered  the  house.  A  tidy  woman  emerged 
from  a  sort  of  glass  cupboard  which  constituted  the  bar, 
minus  the  comforting  drinks  associated  with  the  beau  ideal 
of  a  bar,  but  which  displayed  instead  two  large  decanters  of 
<X)ld  water  with  tumblers  a  discretion,  and  sundry  plates  of 
thin  biscuits  and  sponge-cakes.  This  tidy  woman  politely 
inquired  what  was  his  "  pleasure." 

"  Pleasure,"  answered  Kenelm,  with  his  usual  gravity, 
"  is  not  the  word  I  should  myself  have  chosen.  But  could 
you  oblige  my  horse^I  mean  that  horse — with  a  stall  and  a 
feed  of  oats,  and  that  young  gentleman  and  myself  with  a 
private  room  and  a  dinner  ?  " 

"  Dinner  ! "  echoed  the  hostess — "  dinner !  " 

**  A  thousand  pardons,  ma'am.  But  if  the  word  '  dinner  * 
shock  you  I  retract  it,  and  would  say  instead,  'something  to 
eat  and  drink.'  " 

"  Drink  !     This  is  strictly  a  Temperance  Hotel,  sir." 

"  Oh,  if  you  don't  cat  and  drink  here,"  exclaimed  Ken- 
elm, fiercely,  for  he  was  famished,  "  I  wish  you  good- morn- 
ing." 

"  Stay  a  bit,  sir.  We  do  eat  and  drink  here.  But  we  are 
very  simple  folks.     We  allow  no  fermented  liquors." 

"Not  even  a  glass  of  beer?" 

"  Only  ginger-beer.  Alcohols  are  strictly  forbidden. 
We  have  tea,  and  coifee,  and  milk.  But  most  of  our  cus- 
tomers prefer  the  pure  liquid.  As  for  eating,  sir, —anything 
you  order,  in  reason." 

Kenelm  shook  his  head  and  was  retreating,  when  the  boy, 
who  had  sprung  from  the  gig  and  overheard  the  conversa- 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY.  63 

tion,  cried,  petulantly,  "  What  does  it  signify?  Who  wants 
fermented  liquors?  Water  will  do  very  well.  And  as  for 
dinner, — anything  convenient.  Please,  ma'am,  show  us  into 
a  private  room  ;  1  am  so  tired."  The  last  words  were  said 
in  a  caressing  manner,  and  so  prettily,  that  the  hostess  at 
once  changed  her  tone,  and  muttering,  "  poor  boy  !  "  and,  in 
a  still  more  subdued  mutter,  "what  a  pretty  face  he  has  !  " 
nodded,  and  led  the  way  up  a  very  clean  old-fashioned  stair- 
case. 

"  But  the  horse  and  gig — where  are  they  to  go  ? "  said 
Kenelm,  with  a  pang  of  conscience  on  reflecting  how  ill 
treated  liitherto  had  been  both  horse  and  owner. 

"  Oh,  as  for  the  horse  and  gig,  sir,  you  wall  find  Juke's 
livery-stables  a  few  yards  farther  down.  We  don't  take  in 
horses  ourselves — our  customers  seldom  keep  them  ;  but  you 
will  find  the  best  of  accommodation  at  Jukes's." 

Kenelm  conducted  the  cob  to  the  livery-stables  thus  indi- 
cated, and  waited  to  see  him  walked  about  to  cool,  well 
rubbed  down,  and  made  comfortable  over  half  a  peck  of  oats 
— for  Kenelm  Chillingly  was  a  humane  man  to  the  brute 
creation — and  then,  in  a  state  of  ravenous  appetite,  returned 
to  the  Temperance  Hotel,  and  was  ushered  into  a  small 
drawing-room,  with  a  small  bit  of  carpet  in  the  centre,  six 
small  chairs  with  cane  seats,  prints  on  the  walls  descriptive 
of  the  various  effects  of  intoxicating  liquors  upon  r.undry 
specimens  of  mankind — some  resembling  ghosts,  others 
fiends,  and  all  with  a  general  aspect  of  beggary  and  perdi- 
tion, contrasted  by  Happy-Family  pictures — smiling  wives, 
portly  husbands,  rosy  infants,  emblematic  of  the  beatified 
condition  of  members  of  the  Temperance  Society. 

A  table  with  a  spotless  cloth,  and  knives  and  forks  for 
two,  chiefly,  however,  attracted  Kenelm's  attention. 

The  boy  was  standing  by  the  window,  seemingly  gazing 
on  a  small  aquarium  which  was  there  placed,  and  contained 
the  usual  variety  of  small  fishes,  reptiles,  and  insects,  enjoy- 
ing the  pleasures  of  Temperance  in  its  native  element,  in- 
cluding, of  course,  an  occasional  meal  upon  each  other. 

"What  are  they  going  to  give  us  to  eat  ?"  inquired  Ken- 
elm.    "It  must  be  ready  by  this  time,  I  should  think." 

Here  he  gave  a  brisk  tug  at  the  bell-pull.  The  boy 
advanced  from  the  window,  and  as  he  did  so  Kenelm  was 
struck  with  the  grace  of  his  bearing  and  the  improvement 
in  his  looks,  now  that  he  was  without  his  hat,  and  rest  and 
ablution  had  refreshed  from  heat  and  dust  the  delicate  bloom 


64  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

of  his  complexion.  There  was  no  doubt  about  it  that  he 
was  an  exceedingly  pretty  boy,  and  if  he  lived  to  be  a  man 
would  make  many  a  lady's  heart  ache.  It  was  with  a  cer- 
tain air  of  gracious  superiority  such  as  is  seldom  warranted 
bv  superior  rank  if  it  be  less  than  royal,  and  chiefly  becomes 
a  marked  seniority  in  years,  that  this  young  gentleman,  ap- 
proaching the  solemn  heir  of  the  Chillinglys,  held  out  his 
hand  and  said  : 

"  Sir,  you  have  behaved  extremely  well,  and  I  thank  you 
very  much." 

"Your  Royal  Highness  is  condescending  to  say  so," 
replied  Kenelm  Chillingly,  bowing  low  ;  "  but  have  you 
ordered  dinner  ?  and  what  are  they  going  to  give  us  ?  No 
one  seems  to  answer  the  bell  here.  As  it  is  a  Temperance 
Hotel,  probably  all  the  servants  are  drunk." 

"  Why  should  they  be  drunk  at  a  Temperance  Hotel  ?  " 

"  Why!  because,  as  a  general  rule,  people  who  flagrantly 
pretend  to  anything  are  the  reverse  of  that  which  they  pre- 
tend to.  A  man  who  sets  up  for  a  saint  is  sure  to  be  a  sin- 
ner, and  a  man  who  boasts  that  he  is  a  sinner  is  sure  to  have 
some  feeble,  maudlin,  snivelling  bit  of  saintship  about  him 
which  is  enough  to  make  him  a  humbug.  Masculine  hon- 
esty, whether  it  be  saint-like  or  sinner-like,  does  not  label 
itself  either  saint  or  sinner.  Fancy  St.  Augustin  labelling 
himself  saint,  or  Robert  Burns  sinner  ;  and  therefore, 
though,  little  boy,  you  have  probably  not  read  the  Poems 
of  Robert  Burns,  and  have  certainly  not  read  the  Confes- 
sions of  St.  Augustin,  take  my  word  for  it,  that  both  those 
personages  were  very  good  fellows  ;  and  with  a  little  differ- 
ence of  training  and  experience,  Burns  might  have  written 
the  Confessions,  and  Augustin  the  Poems.  Powers  above  ! 
I  am  starving.  What  did  you  order  for  dinner,  and  when 
is  it  to  appear?" 

The  boy,  who  had  opened  to  an  enormous  width  a  nat- 
urally large  pair  of  hazel  eyes,  while  his  tall  companion  in 
fustian  trousers  and  Belcher  neckcloth  spoke  thus  patroniz- 
ingly of  Robert  Burns  and  St.  Augustin,  now  replied  with 
rather  a  deprecatory  and  shame-faced  aspect,  "  I  am  sorry 
I  was  not  thinking  of  dinner.  I  was  not  so  mindful  of  you 
as  I  ought  to  have  been.  The  landlady  asked  me  what  we 
would  have.  I  said,  'What  you  like;'  and  the  landlady 
muttered  something  about  " (here  the  boy  hesitated.) 

"Yes.     About  what?     Mutton-chops?" 

"No.     Cauliflowers  and  rice-pudding. 


KEN  ELM  C/ilLL/iVGL  Y.  6$ 

Kenelm  Chillingly  never  swore,  never  raged.  Where 
ruder  beings  of  human  mould  swore  or  raged,  he  vented 
displeasure  in  an  expression  of  countenance  so  pathetically 
melancholic  and  lugubrious  that  it  would  have  melted  the 
heart  of  an  Hyrcanian  tiger.  He  turned  his  countenance 
now  on  the  boy,  and  murmuring  "  CauliHower  ! — Starva- 
tion ! "  sank  into  one  of  the  cane-bottomed  chairs,  and 
added  quietly,  "  so  much  for  human  gratitude  !  " 

The  boy  w^as  evidently  smitten  to  the  heart  by  the  bitter 
sweetness  of  this  reproach.  There  were  almost  tears  in  his 
voice,  as  he  said,  falteringly,  "  Pray  forgive  me,  I  was  un- 
grateful. I'll  run  down  and  see  what  there  is  ;"  and,  suit- 
ing the  action  to  the  word,  he  disappeared. 

Kenelm  remained  motionless  ;  in  fact  he  was  plunged  into 
one  of  those  reveries,  or  rather  absorptions  of  inward  and 
spiritual  being,  into  which  it  is  said  that  the  consciousness 
of  the  Indian  Dervish  can  be,  by  prolonged  fasting,  pre- 
ternaturally  resolved.  The  appetite  of  all  men  of  povv^erful 
muscular  development  is  of  a  nature  far  exceeding  the 
properties  of  any  reasonable  number  of  caulillowers  and  rice- 
puddings  to  satisfy.  Witness  Hercules  himself,  whose  crav- 
ings for  substantial  nourishment  were  the  standing  joke  of 
the  classic  poets.  I  d(jn't  know  that  Kenelm  Chillingly 
would  have  beaten  the  Theban  Hercules  either  in  fighting 
or  in  eating  ;  but  when  he  wanted  to  fight  or  when  he 
wanted  to  eat,  Hercules  would  have  had  to  put  forth  all  his 
strength  not  to  be  beaten. 

After  ten  minutes'  absence,  the  boy  came  back  radiant. 
He  tapped  Kenelm  on  the  shoulder,  and  said  playfully,  "I 
made  them  cut  a  wliole  loin  int(j  chops,  besides  the  cauli- 
flower, and  such  a  big  rice-pudding,  and  eggs  and  bacon 
too.     Cheer  up  '  it  will  be  served  in  a  minute." 

"  A— h  !  "  said  Kenelm. 

"  They  are  good  people  ;  they  did  not  mean  to  stint  you  ; 
but  most  of  their  customers,  it  seems,  live  upon  vegetables 
and  farinaceous  food.  There  is  a  society  here  formed  upon 
that  principle  ;  the  landlady  says  they  are  philosophers  ! " 

At  the  word  "■  philosophers  "  Kenelm's  crest  rose  as  that 
of  a  practised  hunter  at  the  cry  of  "Yoiks!  Tally-ho!" 
"  Philosophers  !  "  said  he  —  "  philosophers  indeed  !  O  igno- 
ramuses who  do  not  even  know  the  structure  of  the  human 
tooth!  Look  you,  little  boy,  if  nothing  were  left  on  this 
earth  of  the  present  race  of  man,  as  we  are  assured  upon 
great  authority  will   be  the  case  one  of  these  days — and  a 


66  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

mighty  good  riddance  it  will  be— if  nothing,  I  say,  of  man 
were  left  except  fossils  of  his  teeth  and  his  thumbs,  a  phil- 
osopher of  that  superior  race  which  will  succeed  to  man 
would  at  once  see  in  those  relics  all  his  characteristics  and 
all  his  history;  would  say,  comparing  his  thumb  with  the 
talons  of  an  eagle,  the  claws  of  a  tiger,  the  hoof  of  a  horse, 
the  owner  of  that  thumb  must  have  been  lord  over  creatures 
with  talons  and  claws  and  hoofs.  You  may  say  the  monkey 
tribe  has  thumbs.  True  ;  but  compare  an  ape's  thumb  with 
a  man's, — could  the  biggest  ape's  thumb  have  built  West- 
minster Abbey  ?  But  even  thumbs  are  trivial  evidence 
of  man  as  compared  with  his  teeth.  Look  at  his  teeth  !" — 
here  Kenelm  expanded  his  jaws  from  ear  to  ear  and  dis- 
played semicircles  of  iv'ory,  so  perfect  for  the  purpose  of 
mastication  that  the  most  artistic  dentist  might  have  de- 
spaired of  his  power  to  imitate  tliem — "look,  I  say,  at  his 
teeth!"  The  boy  involuntary  recoiled.  "Are  the  teeth 
those  of  a  miserable  cauliflower-eater  ?  or  is  it  purely  by 
farinaceous  food  that  the  proprietor  of  teeth  like  man's 
obtains  the  rank  of  the  sovereign  destroyer  of  creation  > 
No,  little  boy,  no,"  continued  Kenelm,  closing  his  jaws,  but 
advancing  upon  the  infant,  who  at  each  stride  receded  to- 
wards the  a(}uarium — "  no  ;  man  is  the  master  of  the  world, 
because  of  all  created  beings  he  devours  the  greatest  variety 
and  the  greatest  number  of  created  things.  His  teeth  evince 
that  man  can  live  upon  every  soil  from  the  torrid  to  the 
frozen  zone,  because  man  can  eat  everything  that  other 
creatures  cannot  cat.  And  the  formation  of  his  teeth  proves 
it.  A  tiger  can  eat  a  deer — so  can  man  ;  but  a  tiger  can't 
eat  an  eel— man  can.  An  elephant  can  eat  cauliflowers  and 
rice-pudding — so  can  man  ;  but  an  elephant  can't  eat  a  beef- 
steak— man  can.  In  sum,  man  can  live  everywhere,  because 
he  can  eat  anything,  thanks  to  his  dental  formation!"  con- 
cluded Kenelm,  making  a  prodigious  stride  towards  the  boy. 
"  Man,  when  everything  else  fails  him,  eats  his  own  species." 

"  Don't  ;  you  frighten  me,"  said  the  boy.  "Aha  !  "  clap- 
ping his  hands  with  a  sensation  of  gleeful  relief,  "here  come 
the  mutton-chops!" 

A  wonderfully  clean,  well-washed,  indeed  well-washed- 
out,  middle-aged  parlor-maid  now  appeared,  dish  in  hand. 
Putting  the  dish  on  the  table  and  taking  off  the  cover,  the 
handmaiden  said  civilly,  though  frigidly,  like  one  who  lived 
upon  salad  and  cold  water,  "  Mistress  is  sorry  to  have  kept 
you  waiting,  but  she  thought  you  were  Vegetarians." 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  67 

After  helping  his  young  friend  to  a  mutton-chop,  Kenelm 
helped  himself,  and  replied,  gravely,  "  Tell  your  mistress  that 
if  she  had  only  given  us  vegetables,  I  should  have  eaten  you. 
Tell  her  that  though  man  is  partially  graminivorous,  he  is 
principally  carnivorous.  Tell  her  that  though  a  swine  eats 
cabbages  and  suchlike,  yet  where  a  swine  can  get  a  baby,  it 
eats  the  baby.  Tell  her,"  continued  Kenelm  (now  at  his 
third  chop),  "  that  there  is  no  animal  that  in  digestive  organs 
more  resembles  man  than  a  swine.  Ask  her  if  there  is  any 
baby  in  the  house  ;  if  so,  it  would  be  safe  for  the  baby  to 
send  up  some  more  chops." 

As  the  cutest  observer  could  rarely  be  quite  sure  when 
Kenelm  Chillingly  was  in  jest  or  in  earnest,  the  parlor-maid 
paused  a  moment  and  attempted  a  pale  smile.  Kenelm  lifted 
his  dark  eyes,  unspeakably  sad  and  profound,  and  said, 
mournfully,  "  I  should  be  so  sorry  for  the  baby.  Bring  the 
chops  !  "  The  parlor-maid  vanished.  The  boy  laid  down 
his  knife  and  fork,  and  looked  fixedly  and  inquisitively  on 
Kenelm.  Kenelm,  unheeding  the  look,  placed  the  last  chop 
on  the  boy's  plate. 

"No  more,"  cried  the  boy,  impulsively,  and  returned  the 
chop  to  the  dish.     "  I  have  dined — I  have  had  enough." 

"Little  boy,  you  lie,"  said  Kenelm  ;  "you  have  not  had 
enough  to  keep  body  and  soul  together.  Eat  that  chop,  or 
1  shall  thrash  you  ;  whatever  I  say,  I  do." 

Somehow  or  other  the  boy  felt  quelled  ;  he  ate  the  chop 
in  silence,  again  looked  at  Kenelm's  face,  and  said  to  him- 
self, "  I  am  afraid." 

The  parlor-maid  here  entered  with  a  fresh  supply  of 
chops  and  a  dish  of  bacon  and  eggs,  soon  followed  by  a  rice- 
pudding  baked  in  a  tin  dish,  and  of  size  sufficient  to  have 
nourished  a  charity  school.  When  the  repast  was  finished, 
Kenelm  seemed  to  forget  the  dangerous  properties  of  the 
carnivorous  animal ;  and  stretching  himself  indolently  out, 
appeared  to  be  as  innocently  ruminative  as  the  most  domes- 
tic of  animals  graminivorous. 

Then  said  the  boy,  rather  timidly,  "  May  I  ask  you  another 
favor  ? " 

"  Is  it  to  knock  down  another  uncle,  or  to  steal  another 
gig  and  cob  ?  " 

"  No,  it  is  very  simple  :  it  is  merely  to  find  out  the  ad- 
dress of  a  friend  here  ;  and  when  fovmd  to  give  him  a  note 
from  me." 

"  Does  the  commission  press  ?     '  After  dinner  rest  awhile,' 


6S  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

Scaitli  the  proverb  ;  and  proverbs  are  so  wise  that  no  one  can 
guess  the  author  of  them.  They  are  supposed  to  be  frag- 
ments of  the  philosophy  of  tlae  antediluvians— came  to  us 
packed  up  in  the  ark." 

"  Really,  indeed,"  said  the  boy,  seriously.  "How  interest- 
ing !  No,  my  commission  does  not  press  for  an  hour  or  so. 
Do  you  think,  sir,  they  had  any  drama  before  the  Deluge  ?" 

"  Drama  !  not  a  doubt  of  it.  Men  who  lived  one  or  two 
thousand  years  had  time  to  invent  and  improve  everything  ; 
and  a  play  could  have  had  its  natural  length  then.  It  would 
not  have  been  necessary  to  crowd  the  whole  history  of  Mac- 
beth, from  his  youth  to  his  old  age,  into  an  absurd  epitome 
of  three  hours.  One  cannot  trace  a  touch  of  real  human 
nature  in  any  actor's  delineation  of  that  very  interesting 
Scotchman,  because  the  actor  always  comes  on  the  stage  as 
if  he  were  the  same  age  when  he  murdered  Duncan,  and 
when,  in  his  sere  and  yellow  leaf,  he  was  lopped  off  by  Mac- 
duff." 

"  Do  you  ufunk  Macbeth  was  young  when  he  murdered 
Duncan  ?" 

"  Certainly.  No  man  ever  commits  a  first  crime  of  vio- 
lent nature,  such  as  murder,  after  thirty  ;  if  he  begins  before, 
he  may  go  on  up  to  any  age.  But  youth  is  the  season  for 
commencing  those  wrong  calculations  which  belong  to  ir- 
rational hope  and  the  sense  of  physical  power.  You  thus 
read  in  the  newspapers  that  the  persons  who  murder  their 
svveathearts  are  generally  from  two  to  six  and  twenty  ;  and 
persons  who  murder  from  other  motives  than  love— that  is, 
from  revenge,  avarice,  or  ambition — are  generally  about 
twenty-eight — lago's  age.  Twenty-eight  is  the  usual  close 
of  the  active  season  for  getting  rid  of  one's  fellow-creatures 
— a  prize-fighter  falls  off  after  that  age.  I  take  it  that  Mac- 
beth was  about  twenty-eight  when  he  murdered  Duncan, 
and  from  about  fifty-four  to  sixty  when  he  began  to  whine 
about  missing  the  comforts  of  old  age.  But  can  any  audi- 
ence understand  that  difference  of  years  in  seeing  a  three- 
hours'  play  ;  or  does  any  actor  ever  pretend  to  impress  it  on 
the  audience,  and  appear  as  twenty-eight  in  the  first  act  and 
a  sexagenarian  in  the  fifth  ?  " 

"  I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  the  boy,  evidently  inter- 
ested. "  But  I  never  saw  Macbeth.  I  have  seen  Richard  III, 
— is  not  that  nice  ?  Don't  vou  dote  on  the  Play  ?  I  do. 
What  a  glorious  life  an  actor's  must  be  !" 

Kenelm,  who  had  been  hitherto  rather  talking  to  himself 


KEN  ELM  CHILLTNGLY.  69 

than  to  his  youthful  companion,  here  roused  his  attention, 
looked  on  the  boy  intently,  and  said  : 

"  I  see  you  are  stage-stricken.  You  have  run  away  from 
home  in  order  to  turn  player,  and  I  should  not  wonder  if  this 
note  you  want  me  to  give  is  for  the  manager  of  the  theatre 
or  one  of  his  company." 

The  young  face  that  encountered  Kenelm's  dark  eye  be- 
came very  flushed,  but  set  and  defiant  in  its  expression. 

"  And  what  if  it  were — would  not  you  give  it  ?  " 

"What!  help  a  child  of  your  age,  run  away  from  his 
home,  to  go  upon  the  stage  against  the  consent  of  his  rela- 
tions— certainly  not." 

"  I  am  not  a  child  ;  but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
I  don't  want  to  go  on  the  stage,  at  all  events  without  the 
consent  of  the  person  wdio  has  a  right  to  dictate  my  actions. 
My  note  is  not  to  the  manager  of  the  theatre,  nor  to  one  of 
his  company,  but  it  is  to  a  gentleman  who  condescends  to 
act  here  for  a  few  nights — a  thorough  gentleman — a  great 
actor — my  friend,  the  only  friend  I  have  in  the  world.  I  say 
frankly  I  have  run  away  from  home  so  that  he  may  have  that 
note,  and  if  you  will  not  give  it  some  one  else  will !  " 

The  boy  had  risen  while  he  spoke,  and  he  stood  erect 
beside  the  recumbent  Kenelm,  his  lips  quivering,  his  eyes 
suffused  with  suppressed  tears,  but  his  whole  aspect  resolute 
and  determined.  Evidently,  if  he  did  not  get  his  own  way 
in  this  world,  it  would  not  be  for  want  of  will. 

"  I  will  take  your  note,"  said  Kenelm. 

"There  it  is  ;  give  it  into  the  hands  of  the  person  it  'S 
addressed  to, — Mr.  Herbert  Compton." 


CHAPTER  IV. 


Kenelm  took  his  way  to  the  theatre,  and  inquired  of  tiie 
doorkeeper  for  Mr.  Herbert  Compton.  That  functionary 
replied,  "  Mr.  Compton  does  not  ?.ct  to-night,  and  is  not  in 
the  house." 

"  Where  does  he  lodge  ?" 

The  doorkeeper  pointed  to  a  grocer's  shop  on  the  other 
side  of  the  way,  and  said,  tersely,  "  There,  -grivate  door — 
knock  and  ring." 

Kenelm  did  as  he  was  directed.     A  slatternly  maid-ser 


70  KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY. 

vant  opened  the  door,  and,  in  answer  to  his  interrogatory 
said  tliat  Mr.  Conipton  was  at  home,  but  at  supper. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  disturb  him,"  said  Kenelm,  raising  his 
voice,  for  he  heard  a  chitter  of  knives  and  plates  within  a 
room  hard  by  at  his  left,  "  but  my  business  requires  to  see 
him  fortliwitli  ;"  and,  pushing  the  maid  aside,  he  entered  at 
once  the  adjoining  banquet-hall. 

Before  a  savory  stew  smelling  strongly  of  onions  sat  a 
man  very  much  at  his  ease,  without  coat  or  neckcloth,  a  de- 
cidedly handsome  man — his  iiair  cut  short  and  his  face  close- 
ly shaven,  as  befits  an  actor  who  has  wigs  and  beards  of  all 
hues  and  forms  at  his  command.  The  man  was  not  alone  ; 
opposite  to  him  sat  a  lady,  who  might  be  a  few  years  young- 
er, of-  a  somewhat  faded  complexion,  but  still  pretty,  with 
good  stage  features  and  a  profusion  of  blonde  ringlets. 

"  Mr.  Compton,  I  presume,"  said  Kenelm,  with  a  solemn 
bow. 

"  My  name  is  Compton  :  any  message  from  the  theatre  ? 
or  what  do  you  want  with  me  ?" 

"  I?— nothing!"  replied  Kenelm  ;and  then,  deepening  his 
naturally  muurnfid  voice  into  tones  ominous  and  tragic,  con- 
tinued— "  By  whom  you  are  wanted  let  this  explain  ;  "  there- 
with he  placed  in  Mr.  Compton's  hand  the  letter  with  which 
he  was  charged,  and  stretching  his  arms  and  interlacing  his 
fingers  in  t\\(t pose  of  Talma  as  Julius  Caesar,  added,  "■'Qu'cn 
dis-tu.  Brute ?'" 

Whether  iL  was  from  the  sombre  aspect  and  awe-inspiring 
delivery,  or  ■j7ro;^p(rri?,  of  the  messenger,  or  the  sight  of  the 
handwriting  on  the  address  of  the  missive,  Mr.  Compton's 
countenance  suddenly  fell,  and  his  hand  rested  irresolute, 
as  if  not  daring  to  open  tlie  letter. 

"Never  mind  me,  dear,"  said  the  lady  with  blonde  ring- 
lets, in  a  time  of  stinging  affability  ;  "  read  your  billet-doux ; 
don't  keep  the  young  man  waiting,  love  !  " 

"  Nonsense,  Matilda,  nonsense  !  billet-doux,  indeed  !  more 
likely  a  bill  from  Duke  the  tailor.  Excuse  me  for  a  moment, 
my  dear.  Follow  me,  sir,"  and  rising,  still  with  sliirt-.' leeves 
uncovered,  he  quitted  the  room,  closing  the  door  after  him 
motioned  Kenelm  into  a  small  parlor  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  passage,  and  by  the  light  of  a  suspended  gas-lamp  ran 
his  eye  hastily  over  the  letter,  which,  though  it  seemed  very 
short,  drew  from  him  sundry  exclamations.  "  Good 
Heavens!  how  very  absurd!  what's  to  be  done?"  Then, 
thrusting  the    letter   into    his    trousers-pocket,  fixed   upon 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  71 

Kenelm  a  very  brilliant  pair  of  dark  eyes,  which  soon  dropp- 
ed before  the  steadfast  look  of  that  saturnine  adventurer. 

"  Are  you  in  the  confidence  of  the  writer  of  this  letter?" 
asked  Mr.  Compton,  rather  confusedly. 

"  I  am  not  the  confidant  of  the  writer,"  answered  Kenehn, 
**  but  for  the  time  being  I  am  the  protector." 

"Protector  ?" 

"■  Protector." 

Mr.  Compton  again  eyed  the  messenger,  and,  this  time 
fully  realizing  the  gladiatorial  development  of  that  dark 
stranger's  physical  form,  he  grew  many  shades  paler,  and 
involuntarily  retreated  towards  the  bell-pull. 

After  a  short  pause,  he  said,  "  I  am  requested  to  call  on 
the  writer.  If  I  do  so,  may  I  understand  that  the  interview 
will  be  strictly  private  ?" 

.     "  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  yes— on  the  condition  that  no 
attempt  be  made  to  withdraw  the  writer  from  the  house." 

"  Certainly  not — certainly  not  ;  quite  the  contrary,"  ex- 
claimed Mr.  Compton,  with  genuine  animation.  "  Say  I 
will  call  in  half  an  hour." 

"I  will  give  your  message,"  said  Kenelm,  with  a  polite 
inclination  of  his  head  ;  "and  pray  pardon  me  if  I  remind 
you  that  I  styled  myself  the  protector  of  your  correspondent, 
and  if  the  slightest  advantage  be  taken  of  that  correspondent's 
youth  and  inexperience,  or  the  smallest  encouragement  be 
given  to  plans  of  abduction  from  home  and  friends,  the  stage 
will  lose  an  ornament,  and  Herbert  Compton  vanish  from 
the  scene." 

With  those  words  Kenelm  left  the  player  standing  aghast. 
Gaining  the  street-door,  a  lad  with  a  bandbox  ran  against 
him  and  was  nearly  upset. 

"Stupid,"  cried  the  lad,  "can't  you  see  where  you  are 
going?     Give  this  to  Mrs.  Compton." 

"  I  should  deserve  the  title  you  give  if  I  did  for  nothing 
the  business  for  which  you  are  paid,"  replied  Kenelm,  senten- 
tiously,  and  striding  on. 


CHAPTER  V. 


"  T  HAVE  fulfilled  my  mission,"  said  Kenehn,  on  rejoining 
his  travelling  companion.  "  Mr.  Compton  said  he  would  be 
here  in  half  an  hour." 


72  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

"  Yoii  saw  him  ? " 

"  Of  course  ;  I  promised  to  give  your  letter  into  his  own 
hands." 

"  Was  he  alone  ?  " 

"  No  ;  at  supper  with  his  wife." 

"  His  wile  ?  what  do  you  mean,  sir  ? — wife  !  he  has  no 
wife." 

"  Appearances  are  deceitful.  At  least  he  was  with  a  lady 
who  called  him  '  dear'  and  '  love'  in  as  spiteful  a  tone  of  voice 
as  if  she  had  been  his  wife  ;  and  as  I  was  coming  out  of  his 
street-door  a  lad  who  ran  against  me  asked  me  to  give  a  band- 
box to  Mrs.  Compton." 

The  boy  turned  as  white  as  death,  staggered  back  a  few 
steps,  and  dropped  into  a  chair. 

A  suspicion  which,  during  his  absence,  had  suggested 
itself  to  Kenelm'sincjuiring  mind,  now  t<Jok  strong  confirma- 
tion. He  approached  softly,  drew  a  chair  close  to  the  com- 
panion whom  fate  had  forced  upon  him,  and  said,  in  a  gentle 
whisper  : 

"This  is  no  boy's  agitation.  If  you  have  been  deceived 
or  misled,  and  I  can  in  any  way  advise  or  aid  you,  count  on 
me  as  women  under  the  circumstances  count  on  men  and 
gentlemen." 

The  boy  started  to  his  feet,  and  paced  the  room  with  dis- 
ordered steps,  and  a  countenance  working  with  passions 
which  he  attempted  vainly  to  suppress.  Suddenly  arresting 
his  steps,  he  seized  Kenelm's  hand,  pressed  it  convulsively, 
and  said,  in  a  voice  struggling  against  a  sob  : 

"  I  thank  you — I  bless  you.  Leave  me  now — I  would 
be  alone.  Alone,  too,  I  must  face  this  man.  There  may 
be  some  mistake  yet; — go." 

"You  will  promise  not  to  leave  the  house  till  I  return?" 

"Yes,  I  promise  that." 

■■  And  if  it  be  as  I  fear,  yon  will  then  let  me  counsel  with 
and  advise  you  ?  " 

"  Heaven  help  me,  if  so  !  Whom  else  should  I  trust  to  ? 
Go— go  ! " 

Kcnclm  once  more  found  himself  in  the  streets,  beneath 
the  mingled  light  <jf  gas-lamps  and  the  midsummer  moon. 
He  walked  on  mechanically  till  he  reached  the  extremity  of 
the  town.  There  he  halted,  and,  seating  himself  on  "  mile- 
stcjne,  indulged  in  these  meditations  : 

"  Kenelm,  my  friend,  you  are  in  a  still  worse  scrape  than 
r  thought  you  were  an  hour  ago.     You  have  evidently  now 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  73 

got  a  woman  on  your  hands.  What  on  earth  are  you  to  do 
with  her  ?  A  runaway  woman,  who,  meaning  to  run  off  with 
somebody  else — such  are  the  crosses  and  contradictions  in 
human  destiny — has  run  off  with  you  instead.  What  mortal 
can  hope  to  be  safe  ?  The  last  thing  I  thought  could  befall 
me  when  I  got  up  this  morning  was  that  I  should  have  any 
trouble  about  the  other  sex  before  the  day  was  over.  If  I 
were  of  an  amatory  temperament,  the  Fates  might  have 
some  justification  for  leading  me  into  this  snare,  but,  as  it 
is,  those  meddling  old  maids  have  none.  Kenelm,  my  friend, 
do  you  think  you  ever  can  be  in  love  ?  and,  if  you  were  in 
love,  do  you  think  you  could  be  a  greater  fool  than  you  are 
now?" 

Kenelm  had  not  decided  this  knotty  question  in  the 
conference  held  with  himself,  when  a  light  and  soft  strain 
of  music  came  upon  his  ear.  It  was  but  from  a  stringed 
instrument,  and  might  have  sounded  thin  and  tinkling,  but 
for  the  stillness  of  the  night,  and  that  peculiar  addition  of 
fullness  which  music  acquires  when  it  is  borne  along  a 
tranquil  air.  Presently  a  voice  in  song  was  heard  from 
the  distance  accompanying  the  instrument.  It  was  a  man's 
voice,  a  mellow  and  rich  voice,  but  Kenelm's  ear  could  not 
catch  the  words.  Mechanically  he  moved  on  towards  the 
quarter  from  which  the  sounds  came,  for  Kenelm  Chillingly 
had  music  in  his  soul,  though  he  was  not  quite  aware  ot 
it  himself.  He  saw  before  him  a  patch  of  greensward,  on 
which  grew  a  solitary  elm  with  a  seat  for  wayfarers  beneath 
it.  From  this  sward  the  ground  receded  in  a  wide  semi- 
circle bordered  partly  by  shops,  partly  by  the  tea-gardens 
of  a  pretty  coitage-like  tavern.  Round  the  tables  scattered 
throughout  the  gardens  were  grouped  quiet  customers,  evi- 
dently belonging  to  the  class  of  small  tradespeople  or  su- 
perior artisans.  They  had  an  appearance  of  decorous 
respectability,  and  were  listening  intently  to  the  music.  So 
were  many  persons  at  the  shop-doors,  and  at  the  windows 
of  upper  rooms.  On  tlie  sward,  a  little  in  advance  of  the 
tree,  but  beneath  its  shadow,  stood  the  musician,  and  in  that 
musician  Kenelm  recognized  the  wanderer  from  whose  talk 
he  had  conceived  the  idea  of  the  pedestrian  excursion  which 
had  already  brought  him  into  a  very  awkward  position.  The 
instrument  on  which  the  singer  accompanied  himself  was  a 
guitar,  and  his  song  was  evidently  a  love-song,  though,  as  it 
was  now  drawing  near  to  its  close,  Kenelm  could  but  im- 
perfectly guess  at  its  general  meaning.     He  heard  enough 

4 


74  KE.yELM   CIIIf.I.IXGI.Y. 

to  perceive  that  its  words  were  at  least  free  from  the  vul- 
garilv^  wliich  generally  characterizes  street-ballads,  and  were 
yet  simple  enough  to  please  a  very  homely  audience. 

When  the  singer  ended  there  was  no  applause  ;  but  there 
was  evident  sensation  among  the  audience — a  feeling  as  if 
something  that  had  given  a  common  enjoyment  had  ceased. 
Presently  the  white  Pomeranian  dog,  who  had  hitherto  kept 
himself  out  of  sight  under  the  seat  of  the  elm-tree,  advanced, 
with  a  small  metal  tray  between  his  teeth,  and,  after  looking 
round  him  deliberately  as  if  to  select  whom  of  the  audience 
shcndd  be  honored  with  the  commencement  of  a  general 
subscription,  gravely  approached  Kenelm,  stood  on  his  hind- 
lt^%  stared  at  him,  and  presented  the  tray. 

Kenelm  dropped  a  shilling  into  that  depository,  and  the 
dog,  loejking  gratified,  took  his  way  towards  the  tea-gardens. 

Lifting  his  hat,  for  he  was,  in  his  way,  a  very  polite  man, 
Kenelm  approached  the  singer,  and,  trusting  to  the  altera- 
tion in  his  dress  for  not  being  recognized  by  a  stranger  who 
liad  only  once  before  encountered  him,  he  said: 

"Judging  by  the  little  I  heard,  you  sing  very  well,  sir. 
May  I  ask  who  composed  the  words?" 

"They  are  mine,"  replied  the  stranger. 

^'And  the  air?" 

"Mine  too." 

"Accept  my  compliments.  I  hope  you  find  these  mani- 
festations of  genius  lucrative  ?" 

The  singer,  who  had  not  hitherto  vouchsafed  more  than 
a  careless  glance  at  the  rustic  garb  of  the  questioner,  now 
fixed  his  eyes  full  upon  Kenelm,  and  said,  with  a  smile, 
"  Your  voice  betrays  you,  sir.     We  have  met  before." 

"True  ;  but  I  did  not  then  notice  your  guitar,  nor,  though 
acquainted  with  your  poetical  gifts,  suppose  that  you  se- 
lected this  primitive  method  of  making  them  publicly 
known." 

"Nor  did  I  anticipate  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  again 
in  the  character  of  Hobnail.  Hist  !  let  us  keep  each  other's 
secret.  I  am  known  hereabouts  by  no  other  designation 
than  that  of  the  '  Wandering  Minstrel.'" 

"It  is  in  the  capacity  of  minstrel  that  I  address  you.  If 
it  be  not  an  impertinent  question,  do  you  know  any  songs 
which  take  the  other  side  of  the  case  ?" 

"  What  case  ?     I  don't  understand  you,  sir." 

"  The  song  I  heard  seemed  in  praise  of  that  sham  called 
love.     Don't  you  think  you  could  say  something  more  new 


KENELM   CIIILLIXGLY.  75 

and  more  true,  treating  that  aberration  from  reason  witli  the 

contempt  it  deserves  ?" 

"  Not  if  I  am  to  get  my  travelling  expenses  paid." 

"  Wliat !  the  folly  is  so  popular?  " 

"  Does  not  your  own  heart  tell  you  so  ?  " 

"Not  a  bit  of  it — ^rather  the  contrary.  Your  audience 
at  present  seem  folks  who  live  by  work,  and  can  have  lit- 
tle cime  for  such  idle  phantasies — for,  as  it  is  well  observed 
by  Ovid,  a  poet  who  wrote  much  on  that  subject,  and 
professed  the  most  intimate  acquaintance  with  it,  '  Idleness 
is  the  parent  of  love.'  Can't  you  sing  something  in  praise 
of  a  good  dinner  ?  Everybody  who  w^orks  hard  has  an  ap- 
petite for  food." 

The  singer  again  fixed  on  Kenelm  his  inquiring  eye, 
but,  not  detecting  a  vestige  of  humor  in  the  grave  face  he 
contemplated,  was  rather  puzzled  how  to  reply,  and  there- 
fore remained  silent. 

"I  perceive,"  resumed  Kenelm,  "that  my  observations 
surprise  you  :  the  surprise  will  vanish  on  reflection.  It  has 
been  said  by  another  poet,  more  reflective  than  Ovid,  '  that 
the  world  is  governed  by  love  and  hunger.'  But  hunger 
certainly  has  the  lion's  share  of  the  government  ;  and  if  a 
poet  is  really  to  do  what  he  pretends  to  do  -viz.,  represent 
nature — the  greater  part  of  his  lays  should  be  addressed  to 
the  stomach."  Here,  warming  with  his  subject,  Kenelm  fa- 
miliarly laid  his  hand  upon  the  musician's  shoulder,  and  his 
voice  took  a  tone  bordering  on  enthusiasm.  "  You  will  al- 
low that  a  man,  in  a  normal  condition  of  health,  does  not 
fall  in  love  every  day.  But  in  the  normal  condition  of 
health  he  is  hungry  every  day.  Nay,  in  those  early  years 
when  you  poets  say  he  is  most  prone  to  love,  he  is  so  es- 
pecially disposed  to  hunger  that  less  than  three  meals  a 
day  can  scarcely  satisfy  his  appetite.  You  may  imprison  a 
man  for  months,  for  years,  nay,  for  his  whole  life — from  in- 
fancy to  any  age  which  Sir  Cornewall  Lewis  may  allow  him 
to  attain — without  letting  him  be  in  love  at  all.  But  if  you 
shut  him  up  for  a  week  without  putting  something  into  his 
stomach,  you  will  find  him  at  the  end  of  it  as  dead  as  a 
door-nail." 

Here  the  singer,  who  had  gradually  retreated  before  the 
energetic  advance  of  the  orator,  sank  into  the  seat  by  the 
elm-tree,  and  said,  pathetically,  "  Sir,  you  have  fairly  argued 
me  down.  Will  yoti  please  to  come  to  the  conclusion 
which  you  deduce  from  your  premises  ?" 


76  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

"  Simply  this,  that  where  you  find  one  human  being  who 
cares  about  love,  you  will  find  a  thousand  susceptible  to  the 
charms  of  a  dinner  ;  and  if  you  wish  to  be  the  p()i)ular 
minnesinger  or  troubadour  of  the  age,  appeal  to  nature, 
sir — appeal  to  nature  ;  drop  all  hackneyed  rhapsodies 
about  a  rosy  cheek,  and  strike  your  lyre  to  the  theme  of  a 
beefsteak." 

The  dog  had  for  some  minutes  regained  his  master's 
side,  standing  on  his  hind-legs,  with  the  tray,  tolerably  well 
filled  with  copper  ccjins,  between  his  teeth  ;  and  now,  justly 
aggrieved  by  the  inattention  which  detained  him  in  that 
artificial  attitude,  dropped  the  tray  and  growled  at  Kenelm. 

At  the  same  time  there  came  an  impatient  sound  from 
the  audience  in  the  tea-garden.  They  wanted  another  song 
for  their  money. 

The  singer  rose,  obedient  to  the  summons.  "  Excuse 
me,  sir  ;  but  I  am  called  upon  to " 

"  To  sing  again  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  on  the  subject  I  suggest?" 

"  No,  indeed." 

"  What !  love  again  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  so." 

"  I  wish  you  good-evening,  then.  You  seem  a  well-edu- 
cated man — more  shame  to  you.  Perhaps  we  may  meet 
once  more  in  our  rambles,  when  the  question  can  be  prop- 
erly argued  out." 

Kenelm  lifted  his  hat,  and  turned  on  his  heel.  Before  he 
reached  the  street,  the  sweet  voice  of  the  singer  again  smote 
his  ears  ;  but  the  only  word  distinguishable  in  the  distance, 
ringing  out  at  the  close  of  the  refrain,  was  "love." 

"  Fiddle-de-dee,"  said  Kenelm. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


As  Kenelm  regained  the  street  dignified  by  the  edifice 
of  the  Temperance  Hotel,  a  figure,  dressed  picturesquely  in 
a  Spanish  cloak,  brushed  hurriedly  by  him,  but  not  so  fast 
as  to  be  unrecognized  as  the  tragedian.  "  Hem  !  "  muttered 
Kenelm — "  I  don't  think  there  is  much  triumph  in  that  face. 
I  suspect  he  has  been  scolded." 


;  KENELM    CHILLINGLY.  77 

The  boy — if  Kenelm's  travelling  companion  is  still  to  be 
so  designated — -was  leaning  against  the  mantel-piece  as 
Kenelm  re-entered  the  dinino-iooni.  There  was  an  air  of 
profound  dejection  about  the  boy's  listless  attitude  and  in 
the  drooping  tearless  eyes. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Kenelm,  in  the  softest  tones  of 
his  plaintiv'e  voice,  "  do  not  honor  me  with  any  confidence 
that  may  be  painful.  But  let  me  hope  that  you  have  dis- 
missed forever  all  thoughts  of  going  on  the  stage." 

"Yes,"  was  the  scarce  audible  answer. 

"  And  now  only  remains  the  question,  '  What  is  to  be 
done?'" 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  care." 

"  Then  you  leave  it  to  me  to  know  and  to  care,  and  as- 
suming for  the  moment  as  a  fact,  that  which  is  one  of  the 
greatest  lies  in  this  mendacious  world — namely,  that  all 
men  are  brothers,  you  will  consider  me  as  an  elder  brother, 
who  will  counsel  and  control  you  as  he  would — an  impru- 
dent young sister.     I  see  very  well  how  it  is.     Somehow 

or  other  you,  having  first  admired  Mr.  Compton  as  Romeo 
or  Richard  III.,  made  his  acquaintance  as  Mr.  Compton. 
He  allowed  you  to  believe  him  a  single  man.  In  a  roman- 
tic moment  you  escaped  from  your  home,  with  the  design 
of  adopting  the  profession  of  the  stage  and  of  becoming 
Mrs.  Compton." 

"  Oh,"  broke  out  the  girl,  since  her  sex  must  now  be  de- 
clared,— "  oh,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  passionate  sob,  "what 
a  fool  I  have  been  !  Only  do  not  think  worse  of  me  than  I 
deserve.  The  man  did  deceive  mc  ;  he  did  not  think  I 
shoidd  take  him  at  his  word,  and  follow  him  here,  or  his 
wife  would  not  have  appeared.     I  should  not  have  knoAvn 

that  he  had  one  ;  and — and "  here  her  voice  was  choked 

under  her  passion. 

"But,  now  you  have  discovered  the  truth,  let  us  thank 
heaven  that  you  are  saved  from  shame  and  misery.  I  must 
despatch  a  telegram  to  your  uncle — give  me  his  address." 

"No,  no." 

"There  is  not  a  'No'  possible  in  this  case,  my  child. 
Your  reputation  and  your  future  must  be  saved.  Leave  me 
to  explain  all  to  your  uncle.  He  is  your  guardian.  I  must 
send  for  him  ;  nav,  nay,  there  is  no  option.  Hate  me  now 
for  enforcing  your  will,  you  will  thank  me  hereafter.  And 
listen,  young  lady  ;  if  it  does  pain  you  to  see  your  uncle 
and  encounter  his  reproaches,  every  fault  must  undergo  its 


78  KEN  ELM  CfllLLINGLY. 

punishment.  A  brave  nature  undergoes  it  cheerfully,  as  a 
part  of  atonement.  Vou  are  brave.  Submit,  and  in  sub- 
mitting rejoice  !  " 

There  was  something  in  Kenelm's  voice  and  manner  at 
once  so  kindly  and  so  commanding,  that  the  wayward  nature 
he  addressed  fairly  succumbed.  She  gave  him  her  uncle's 
address,  "John  Bovill,  Esq.,  Oakdale,  near  Westmere,"  and 
alter  giving  it,  fi.xcd  her  eyes  mournfully  upon  her  young 
adviser,  and  said,  with  a  simple,  dreary  pathos,  "Now,  will 
you  esteem  me  more,  or  rather  despise  me  less  ? " 

She  looked  so  young,  nay,  so  childlike,  as  she  thus  spoke, 
that  Kenelm  felt  a  parental  inclination  to  draw  her  on  his 
lap  and  kiss  away  her  tears.  But  he  prudently  conquered 
that  impulse,  and  said,  with  a  melancholy  half-smile: 

"If  human  beings  despise  each  other  for  being  yoimg 
and  foolish,  the  sooner  we  are  exterminated  by  that  superior 
race  which  is  to  succeed  us  on  earth  the  better  it  will  be. 
Adieu  till  your  uncle  comes." 

"  What  !  you  leave  me  here — alone  ?" 

"  Nay,  if  yciur  uncle  found  me  under  the  same  roof,  now 
that  I  know  you  are  his  niece,  don't  you  think  he  would 
have  a  right  to  throw  me  out  of  the  window  ?  Allow  me  to 
practise  for  myself  the  prudence  I  preach  to  you.  Send  for 
the  landlady  to  show  vou  your  room,  shut  yourself  in  there, 
go  to  bed,  and  don't  cry  more  than  you  can  help." 

Kenelm  shouldered  the  knapsack  he  had  deposited  in  a 
corner  of  the  room,  inquired  for  the  telegraph  office,  des- 
patched a  telegram  to  Mr.  Bovill,  obtained  a  bedroom  at  the 
Commercial  Hotel,  and  fell  asleep  muttering  these  sensible 
words : 

"  Rochefoucauld  was  perfectly  right  when  lie  said,  '  Very 
few  people  would  fall  in  love  if  they  had  not  heard  it  so 
much  talked  about.'" 


CHAPTER   VH. 


Kenelm  Chillingly  rose  with  the  sim,  according  to  his 
usual  custom,  and  took  his  way  to  the  Temperance  Hotel. 
All  in  that  sober  building  seemed  still  in  the  arms  of  Mf)r- 
pheus.     He  turned  towards  the  stables  in  which  he  had  left 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  79 

the  gray  cob,  and  had  the  pleasure  to  see  that  ill-used  animal 
in  tliG  healthful  process  ot  rubbing  down. 

"That's  riglit,"  said  he  to  the  ostler.  "I  am  glad  to  see 
you  are  so  early  a  riser." 

"  Why,"  quoth  the  ostler,  "  the  gentleman  as  owns  the 
pony  knocked  me  up  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
pleased  enough  he  was  to  see  the  creature  again  lying  down 
in  the  clean  straw." 

"  Oh,  he  has  arrived  at  the  hotel,  I  presume  ? — a  stout 
gentleman  ? " 

"  Yes,  stout  enough  ;  and  a  passionate  gentleman  too. 
Came  in  a  yellow  and  two  posters,  knocked  up  the  Temper- 
ance, and  then  knocked  up  me  to  see  for  the  pony,  and  was 
much  put  out  as  he  could  not  get  any  grog  at  the  Temper- 
ance." 

"  I  daresay  he  was.  I  wish  he  had  got  his  grog  ;  it  might 
have  put  hitn  in  better  humor.  Poor  little  thing  !  "  muttered 
Kenelm,  turning  away  ;  "  I  am  afraid  she  is  in  for  a  regular 
vituperation.  My  turn  next,  I  suppose.  But  he  must  be  a 
good  fellow  to  have  come  at  once  for  his  niece  in  the  dead 
of  the  night." 

About  nine  o'clock  Kenelm  presented  himself  again  at 
the  Temperance  Hotel,  inquired  for  Mr.  Bovill,  and  was 
shown  by  the  prim  maid-servant  into  the  drawing-room, 
where  he  found  Mr.  Bovill  seated  amicably  at  breakfast  with 
his  niece,  who,  of  course,  was  still  in  boy's  clothing,  having 
no  other  costume  at  hand.  To  Kenelm's  great  relief,  Mr. 
Bovill  rose  from  the  table  with  a  beaming  countenance,  and, 
extending  his  hand  to  Kenelm,  said  : 

"  Sir,  you  are  a  gentleman  ;  sit  down,  sit  down,  and  take 
breakfast." 

Then,  as  soon  as  the  maid  was  out  of  the  room,  the  uncle 
continued  : 

"  I  have  heard  all  your  good  conduct  from  this  young 
simpleton.     Things  might  have  been  worse,  sir." 

Kenelm  bowed  his  head,  and  drew  the  loaf  towards  him 
in  silence.  Then,  considering  that  some  apology  was  due 
to  liis  entertainer,  he  said  : 

"  I  hope  you  forgive  me  for  that  unfortunate  mistake 
when " 

"You  knocked  me  down,  or  rather  tripped  me  up.  All 
right  now.  Elsie,  give  the  gentleman  a  cup  of  tea.  Pretty 
little  rogue,  is  not  she?  and  a  good  girl,  in  spite  of  her  non- 
sense.    It  was  all  my  fault  lettmg  her  go  to  the  play  and  be 


8o  A'EyELM   CHILLINGLY. 

intimate  with  Miss  Lockit,  a  stage-stricken,  foolish  old  maid, 
who  ought  to  have  known  better  than  lead  her  into  all  this 
trouble." 

"  No,  uncle,"  cried  the  girl,  resolutely  ;  "don't  blame  her, 
nor  any  one  but  me." 

Kenelm  turned  his  dark  eyes  approvingly  towards  the  girl, 
and  saw  that  lier  lips  were  linnly  set  ;  tliere  was  an  expres- 
sion, not  of  grief  nor  shame,  but  compressed  resolution  in  her 
countenance.  But  when  her  eyes  met  his  they  fell  softly, 
and  a  blush  mantled  over  her  cheeks  to  her  very  forehead. 

"Ah!"  said  the  uncle,  "just  like  you,  Elsie;  always 
ready  to  take  everybody's  fault  on  your  own  shoulders. 
Well,  well,  say  no  more  about  that.  Now,  my  young  friend, 
what  brings  you  across  the  country  tramping  it  on  foot,  eh  ? 
a  young  man's  whim  ?  "  As  he  spoke  he  eyed  Kenelm  very 
closely,  and  his  look  was  that  of  an  intelligent  man  not  mi- 
accustomed  to  observe  the  faces  of  those  he  conversed  with. 
In  fact,  a  more  shrewd  man  of  business  than  Mr.  Bovill  is 
seldom  met  with  on  'Change  or  in  market. 

"I  travel  on  foot  to  please  myself,  sir,"  answered  Ken- 
elm, curtly,  and  uncon.sciously  set  on  his  guard. 

"  Of  course  you  do,"  cried  Mr.  Bovill,  with  a  jovial 
laugh.  "  But  it  seems  you  don't  object  to  a  chaise  and 
pony  whenever  you  can  get  them  for  nothing — ha,  ha  ! — 
excuse  me — a  joke." 

Herewith  Mr.  Bovill,  still  in  excellent  good-humor, 
abruptly  changed  the  conversation  to  general  luatters  — 
agricultural  prospects — chance  of  a  good  harvest — corn  trade 
— money  market  in  general — politics — state  of  the  nation. 
Kenelm  felt  there  was  an  attempt  to  draw  him  out,  to  sound, 
to  pump  him,  and  replied  only  by  monosyllables,  generally 
significant  of  igncjrance  on  the  questions  broached  ;  and  at 
the  close,  if  the  philosophical  heir  of  the  Chillinglys  was  in 
the  habit  of  allowing  himself  to  be  surprised  he  would  cer- 
tainly have  been  startled  when  Mr.  Bovill  rose,  slapped  him 
on  the  shoulder,  and  said,  in  a  tone  of  great  satisfaction, 
"Just  as  I  thought,  sir  ;  you  know  nothing  of  these  matters 
— you  are  a  gentleman  born  and  bred — your  clothes  can't 
disguise  you,  sir.  Elsie  was  right.  My  dear,  just  leave  us 
for  a  few  minutes  ;  I  have  something  to  say  to  our  young 
friend.     You  can  get  ready  meanwhile  to  go  with  me." 

Elsie  left  the  table  and  walked  obediently  towards  the 
doorway.  There  she  halted  a  moment,  turned  round,  and 
looked    timidly  towards  Kenelm.      He   had  naturally  risen 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  8i 

from  his  seat  as  slie  rose,  and  advanced  some  paces  as  if  to 
open  the  door  for  her.  Thus  their  looks  encountered.  He 
could  not  interpret  that  shy  gaze  of  hers  ;  it  was  tender,  it 
was  deprecating,  it  was  humble,  it  was  pleading  ;  a  man 
accustomed  to  female  conquests  might  have  thought  it  was 
something  more,  something  in  which  was  the  key  to  all. 
But  that  something  more  was  an  unknown  tongue  to  Kenelm 
Chillingly. 

When  tlie  two  men  were  alone,  Mr.  Bovill  reseated  him- 
self, and  motioned  to  Kenelm  to  do  the  same.  "  Now,  yoimg 
sir,"  said  the  former,  "you  and  I  can  talk  at  our  ease.  That 
adventure  of  yours  yesterday  may  be  the  luckiest  thing  that 
could  happen  to  you." 

"  It  is  sufficiently  lucky  if  I  have  been  of  any  service  to 
your  niece.  But  her  own  good  sense  would  have  been  her 
safeguard  if  she  had  been  alone,  and  discovered,  as  she 
would  have  done,  that  Mr.  Compton  had,  knowingly  or  not, 
misled  her  to  believe  that  he  was  a  single  man." 

"  Hang  Mr.  Compton  !  we  have  done  with  him.  I  am  a 
plain  man,  and  I  come  to  the  point.  It  is  you  who  have  car- 
ried off  my  niece  ;  it  is  with  you  that  she  came  to  this  hotel. 
Now,  when  Elsie  told  me  how  Avell  you  had  behaved,  and 
that  your  language  and  manners  were  those  of  a  real  srentle- 
man,  my  mind  was  made  up.  I  guess  pretty  well  what  you 
are  ;  you  are  a  gentleman's  son — probably  a  college  youth 
— not  overburdened  with  cash — had  a  quarrel  with  your 
governor,  and  he  keeps  you  short.  Don't  interrupt  me. 
Well,  Elsie  is  a  good  girl  and  a  pretty  girl,  and  will  make  a 
good  wife,  as  wives  go  ;  and,  hark  ye,  she  has  ^20,000.  So 
just  confide  in  me  — and  if  you  don't  like  your  parents  to 
know  about  it  till  the  thing's  done,  and  they  be  only  got  to 
forgive  and  bless  you,  why,  you  shall  marry  Elsie  before 
you  can  say  Jack  Robinson." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Kenelm  Chillingly  was  seized 
with  terror — terror  and  consternation.  His  jaw  dropped — 
his  tongue  was  palsied.  If  hair  ever  stands  on  end,  his  hair 
did.  At  last,  with  superhuman  effort,  he  gasped  out  the 
word,  "  Marry  !  " 

"  Yes — marry.  If  you  are  a  gentleman  you  are  bound  to 
it.  You  have  compromised  my  niece — a  respectable,  vir- 
tuous girl,  sir — an  orphan,  but  not  unprotected.  I  repeat, 
it  is  you  who  have  plucked  her  from  my  very  arms,  and  with 
violence  and  assault  ;  eloped  with  her  ;  and  what  would  the 
world  say  if  it  knew  ?     Would   it  believe   in   your   prudent 


J2  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

conduct? — conduct  only  to  be  explained  by  the  respect  you 
felt  due  to  your  future  wife.  And  where  will  you  find  a  bet- 
ter ?  Where  will  you  find  an  uncle  who  will  part  with  his 
ward  and  ^20,000  without  asking  if  you  have  a  sixpence  ? 
and  the  girl  has  taken  a  fancy  to  you — I  see  it  ;  would  she 
have  given  up  that  player  so  easily  if  you  had  not  stolen  her 
heart?  Would  you  break  that  heart?  No,  young  man — 
you  are  not  a  villain.     Shake  hands  on  it  !" 

"Mr.  Bovill,"  said  Kenelm,  recovering  his  wonted  equa- 
nimity, "  I  am  inexpressibly  flattered  by  the  honor  you  pro- 
pose to  me,  and  I  do  not  deny  that  Miss  Elsie  is  worthy  of  a 
much  better  man  than  myself.  But  I  have  inconceivable 
prejudices  against  the  connubial  state.  If  it  be  permitted 
to  a  member  of  the  Established  Church  to  cavil  at  any  sen- 
tence written  by  St.  Paid — and  I  think  that  liberty  may  be 
permitted  to  a  simple  layman,  since  eminent  members  of 
the  clergy  criticise  the  whole  Bible  as  freely  as  if  it  were  the 
history  of  Ouccn  Elizabeth  by  Mr.  Froude — I  should  demur 
at  the  doctrine  that  it  is  better  to  marry  than  to  burn  ;  I 
myself  should  prefer  burning.  With  these  sentiments  it 
would  ill  become  any  one  entitled  to  that  distinction  of 
'gentleman'  which  you  confer  on  me  to  lead  a  fellow-vic- 
tim to  the  sacrificial  altar.  As  for  any  reproach  attached  to 
Miss  Elsie,  since  in  my  telegram  I  directed  you  to  ask  for  a 
young  gentleman  at  this  hotel,  her  very  sex  is  not  knoAvn  in 
this  place  imless  you  divulge  it.      And " 

Ilere  Kenelm  was  interru[)ted  by  a  violent  explosion  of 
rage  from  the  uncle.  He  stamped  his  feet  ;  he  almost 
foamed  at  the  mouth  ;  he  doubled  his  fist,  and  shook  it  in 
Kenclm's  face. 

"Sir,  you  are  mocking  me  :  John  Bovill  is  not  a  man  to 
be  jeered  in  this  way.  You  shall  marry  the  girl.  I'll  not 
have  her  thrust  back  upon  me  to  be  the  plague  of  my  life 
witla  her  whims  and  tantrums.  You  have  taken  her,  andyou 
shall  keep  her,  or  I'll  break  every  bone  in  your  skin." 

"Break  them,"  said  Kenelm,  resignedly,  but  at  the  same 
time  falling  back  into  a  formidable  attitude  of  defence,  which 
cooled  the  pugnacity  of  his  accuser.  Mr.  Bovill  sank  into 
his  chair,  and  wiped  his  forehead.  Kenelm  craftily  pursued 
the  advantage  he  had  gained,  and  in  mild  accents  proceeded 
to  reason  : 

"  When  you  recover  your  habitual  serenity  of  humor,  Mr. 
Bovill,  you  will  see  how  much  your  very  excusable  desire  to 
secure  your  niece's   happiness,  and,  I    may  add,  to    reward 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  C3 

what  you  allow  to  have  been  forbearing  and  well-bred  con- 
duct on  my  part,  has  hurried  you  into  an  error  of  judgment. 
You  know  nothing  of  me.  I  may  be,  for  what  you  kno\y, 
an  impostor  or  swindler  ;  I  may  have  every  bad  quality,  and 
yet  yoij  are  to  be  contented  with  my  assurance,  or  rather 
your  own  assumption,  that  I  am  born  a  gentleman,  in  order 
to  give  me  your  niece  and  her  ^20,000.  This  is  temporary 
insanity  on  your  part.  Allow  me  to  leave  you  to  recover 
from  your  excitement." 

"  Stop,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Bovill,  in  a  changed  and  sullen 
tone  ;  "  I  am  not  quite  the  madman  you  think  me.  But  I 
daresay  I  have  been  too  hasty  and  too  rough.  Nevertheless 
the  facts  are  as  I  have  stated  them,  and  I  do  not  see  how,  as 
a  man  of  honor,  you  can  get  off  marrying  my  niece.  The 
mistake  you  made  in  running  away  with  her  was,  no  doubt, 
innocent  on  your  part  ;  but  still  there  it  is  ;  and  supposing 
the  case  came  before  a  jury,  it  would  be  an  ugly  one  for  you 
and  your  family.  Marriage  alone  could  mend  it.  Come, 
come,  I  own  I  was  too  business-like  in  rushing  to  the  point 
at  once,  and  I  no  longer  say,  '  Marry  my  niece  off-hand.' 
You  have  only  seen  her  disguised  and  in  a  false  position. 
Pay  me  a  visit  at  Oakdale — stay  with  me  a  month — and  if, 
at  the  end  of  that  time,  you  do  not  like  her  well  enough  to 
propose,  I'll  let  you  off  and  say  no  more  about  it." 

While  Mr.  Bovill  thus  spoke,  and  Kenelm  listened, 
neither  saw  that  the  door  had  been  noiselessly  opened,  and 
that  Elsie  stood  at  the  threshold.  Now,  before  Kenelm 
could  reply,  she  advanced  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  and, 
her  small  figure  drawn  up  to  its  fullest  height,  her  cheeks 
glowing,  hei:  lips  quivering,  exclaimed  : 

*'  Uncle,  for  shame  !  "  Then,  addressing  Kenelm  in  a 
sharp  tone  of  anguish,  "  Oh,  do  not  believe  I  knew  anything 
of  this  !  "  she  covered  her  face  with  both  hands  and  stood 
mute. 

All  of  chivalry  that  Kenelm  had  received  with  his  bap- 
tismal appellation  was  aroused.  He  sprang  up,  and,  bend- 
ing his  knee  as  he  drew  one  of  her  hands  into  his  own,  he 
said  : 

"  I  am  as  convinced  that  your  uncle's  words  are  abhor- 
rent to  you  as  I  am  that  you  are  a  pure-hearted  and  high- 
spirited  woman,  of  whose  friendship  I  shall  be  proud.  We 
meet  again."  Then  releasing  her  hand,  he  addressed  Mr. 
Bovill  :  '•  Sir,  you  are  unworthy  the  charge  of  your  niece. 
Had  you  not  been  so,  she  would  have  committed  no  im- 


84  A'ENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

prudence.      If  she  have  any  female  relation,  to  that  relation 
transfer  your  charge." 

"  I  have  !  I  have  !  "  cried  Elsie  ;  "  my  lost  mother's 
sister— let  me  go  to  her." 

"  The  woman  who  keeps  a  school  !  "  said  Mr.  Bovill, 
sneeringly. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Kenelm. 

"  She  never  would  go  there.  I  proposed  it  to  her  a  year 
ago.     The  minx  would  not  go  into  a  school." 

"  I  will  now,  uncle." 

"  Well,  then,  you  shall  at  once  ;  and  I  hope  you'll  be  put 
on  bread  and  water.  Fool  !  fool  !  you  have  spoilt  your  own 
game.  Mr.  Ciiillingly,  now  that  Miss  Elsie  has  turned  her 
back  on  herself,  I  can  convince  you  that  I  am  not  the  mad- 
man you  thought  me.  I  was  at  the  festive  meeting  held 
wlicn  you  came  of  age — my  brother  is  one  of  your  father's 
tenants.  I  did  not  recognize  your  face  immediately  in  the 
excitement  of  our  encounter  and  in  your  change  of  dress  ; 
but  in  walking  home  it  struck  me  that  I  had  seen  it  before, 
and  I  knew  it  at  once  when  you  entered  the  room  to-d,iy. 
It  has  been  a  tussle  between  us  which  should  beat  the  other. 
You  have  beat  me  ;  and  thanks  to  that  idiot  !  If  she  had 
not  put  her  spoke  into  my  wheel,  she  should  have  lived  to 
be  'my  lady.'     Now  good-day,  sir." 

"  Mr.  Bovill,  you  offered  to  shake  hands  :  shake  hands 
now,  and  promise  me,  with  the  good  faith  of  one  honorable 
combatant  to  another,  that  Miss  Elsie  shall  go  to  her  aunt 
the  schoolmistress  at  once  if  she  wishes  it.  Hark  ye,  my 
friend  "  (this  in  Mr.  Bovill's  ear)  :  "  A  man  can  never  man- 
age a  woman.  Till  a  woman  marries,  a  prudent  man  leaves 
lier  to  women  ;  when  she  does  marry,  she  manages  her  hus- 
band, and  there's  an  end  of  ii." 

Kenelm  was  gone. 

"  Oh,  wise  young  man  !  "  murmured  the  uncle.  "  Elsie, 
dear,  how  can  we  go  to  your  aunt's  while  you  are  in  that 
dress  ?  " 

Elsie  started  as  from  a  trance,  her  eyes  directed  to- 
wards the  doorway  througli  which  Kenelm  had  vanished. 
"  This  dress,"  she  said,  contemptuously — "  this  dress — is  not 
that  easily  altered  with  shops  in  the  town  ?  " 

"Gad!"  muttered  Mr.  Bovill,  "that  youngster  is  a 
second  Solomon  ;  and  if  I  can't  manage  Elsie,  she'll  man- 
age a  husband — whenever  she  gets  one." 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  85 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  By  the  powers  that  guard  innocence  and  celibacy," 
soliloquized  Kenelm  Chillingly,  "but  I  have  had  a  nanow 
escape  !  and  had  that  amphibious  creature  been  in  girl's 
clothes  instead  of  boy's,  when  she  intervened  like  the  deity 
of  the  ancient  drama,  I  might  have  plunged  my  armorial 
Fishes  into  hut  water.  Though,  indeed,  it  is  hard  to  sup- 
pose that  a  young  lady  head-over-ears  in  love  with  Mr. 
Compton  yesterday  could  have  consigned  her  affections  to 
me  to-day.  Still  she  looked  as  if  she  could,  which  proves 
either  that  one  is  never  to  trust  a  woman's  heart,  or  never 
to  trust  a  woman's  looks.  Decimus  Roach  is  right.  Man 
must  never  relax  his  flight  from  the  women,  if  he  strives  to 
achieve  an  '  Approach  to  the  Angels.  '  " 

These  reflections  were  made  by  Kenelm  Chillingly  as, 
having  turned  his  back  upon  the  town  in  which  such  temp- 
tations and  trials  had  befallen  him,  he  took  his  solitary  way 
along  a  footpath  that  wound  through  meads  and  corn-fields, 
and  shortened  by  three  miles  the  distance  to  a  cathedral 
town  at  which  he  proposed  to  rest  for  the  night. 

He  had  travelled  for  some  hours,  and  the  sun  was  be- 
ginning to  slope  towards  a  range  of  blue  hills  in  the  west, 
when  he  came  to  the  margin  of  afresh  rivulet,  overshadowed 
by  feathery  willows  and  the  quivering  leaves  of  silvery 
Italian  poplars.  Tempted  by  the  quiet  and  cool  of  this 
pleasant  spot,  he  flung  himself  dowm  on  the  banks,  drew 
from  his  knapsack  some  crusts  of  bread  with  which  he  had 
VTisely  provided  himself,  and  dipping  them  into  the  pure 
lymph  as  it  rippled  over  its  pebbly  bed,  enjoyed  one  of  those 
luxurious  repasts  for  which  epicures  would  exchange  their 
banquets  in  return  for  the  appetite  of  youth.  Then,  re- 
clined along  the  bank,  and  crushing  the  wild  thyme  which 
grows  best  and  sweetest  in  wooded  coverts,  provided  they 
be  neighbored  by  water,  no  matter  whether  in  pool  or  rill, 
he  resigned  himself  to  that  intermediate  state  between 
thought  and  dream-land  which  we  call  "reverie."  At  a 
little  distance  he  heard  the  low  still  sound  of  the  mower's 
scythe,  and  the  air  came  to  his  brow  sweet  with  the  fra- 
grance of  new  mown  hay. 


86  KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY. 

He  was  roused  by  a  gentle  tap  on  the  shoulder,  and,  turn- 
ing lazily  round,  saw  a  good-humored  jovial  face  upon  a  pair 
of  massive  shoulders,  and  heard  a  hearty  and  winning  voice 
say  : 

"  Young  man,  if  you  are  not  too  tired,  will  you  lend  a 
hand  to  get  in  my  hay  ?  We  are  very  short  of  hands,  and  I 
am  afraid  we  shall  have  rain  pretty  soon." 

Kenclm  rose  and  shook  himself,  gravely  contemplated 
the  stranger,  and  replied,  in  his  customary  sententious  fash- 
ion :  "  Man  is  born  to  help  his  fellow-man — especiallv  to 
get  in  hay  while  the  sun  shines.     I  am  at  your  service." 

*'  That's  a  good  felk)W,  and  I'm  greatly  obliged  to  you. 
You  see  I  had  counted  on  a  gang  of  roving  haymakers,  but 
they  were  bought  up  by  another  farmer.  This  way."  And, 
leading  on  through  a  gap  in  the  brushwood,  he  emerged, 
followed  by  Kenelm,  into  a  large  meadow,  one-third  of  which 
was  still  under  the  scythe,  the  rest  being  occupied  with 
persons  of  both  sexes,  tossing  and  spreading  the  cut  grass. 
Among  the  latter,  Kenelm,  stripped  to  his  shirt-sleeves,  soon 
found  himself  tossing  and  spreading  like  the  rest,  with  his 
usual  melancholy  resignation  of  mien  and  aspect.  Though  a 
little  awkward  at  first  in  the  use  of  his  unfamiliar  implements, 
his  practice  in  all  athletic  accomplishments  bestowed  on  him 
that  invaluable  quality  which  is  termed  "  handiness,"  and 
he  soon  distinguished  himself  by  the  superior  activitv  and 
neatness  with  which  he  performed  his  work.  vScnncthing — 
it  might  be  in  his  countenance  or  in  the  charm  of  his  being 
a  stranger — attracted  the  attention  of  the  feminine  section 
of  haymakers,  and  one  very  pretty  girl,  who  was  nearer  to 
him  than  the  rest,  attempted  to  commence  conversation. 

"  This  is  new  to  you,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"  Nothing  is  new  to  me,"  answered  Kenelm  mournfully. 
"  But  allow  me  to  observe  that  to  do  things  well  you  should 
only  do  one  thing  at  a  time.  I  am  here  to  make  hay,  and 
not  conversation." 

"  My  !"  said  the  girl,  in  amazed  ejaculation,  and  turned 
off  with  a  toss  of  her  pretty  head. 

"  I  wonder  if  that  jade  has  got  an  uncle,"  thought  Ken- 
elm. 

The  farmer,  who  took  his  share  of  work  with  the  men, 
halting  now  and  then  to  look  round,  noticed  Kenelm's  vigor- 
ous application  with  much  approval,  and  at  the  close  of  the 
day's  work  shook  him  heartily  by  the  hand,  leaving  a  two- 
shilling  piece  in  his  palm.     The  heir  of  the  Chillinglys  gazed 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY.  87 

on  tlin.t  honorarium,  and  turned  it  over  witli  the  finger  and 
tliumb  of  the  left  hand. 

"  Ben't  it  eno'  ?  "  said  the  farmer,  nettled. 

"  Pardon  me,"  answered  Kenelra.  "  But,  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  it  is  the  first  money  I  ever  earned  by  my  own 
bodily  labor  ;  and  I  regard  it  with  equal  curiosity  and  re- 
spect. But,  if  it  would  not  offend  you,  I  would  rather  that, 
instead  of  the  money,  you  had  offered  me  some  supper  ;  for 
I  have  tasted  nothing  but  bread  and  water  since  the  morn- 
ing." 

"You  shall  have  the  money  and  supper  both,  my  lad," 
said  the  farmer,  cheerily.  "  And  if  you  will  stay  and  help 
till  I  have  got  in  the  hay,  I  daresay  my  good  woman  can  find 
you  a  better  bed  than  you'll  get  at  the  village  inn — if,  indeed, 
you  can  get  one  there  at  all." 

"  You  are  very  kind.  But,  before  I  accept  your  hos- 
pitalitv,  excuse  one  question — have  you  any  nieces  about 
you  ?  " 

"  Nieces  !  "  echoed  the  farmer,  mechanically  thrusting  his 
hands  into  his  breeches-pockets,  as  if  in  search  of  something 
there — "nieces  about  me !  what  do  you  mean?  Be  that  a 
new-fangled  word  for  coppers  ?  " 

"  Not  for  coppers,  though  perhaps  for  brass.  But  I  spoke 
without  metaphor.  I  object  to  nieces  upon  abstract  princi- 
ple, confirmed  by  the  test  of  experience." 

The  farmer  stared,  and  thought  his  new  friend  not  quite  so 
sound  in  his  mental  as  he  evidently  was  in  his  physical  con- 
formation, but  replied,  with  a  laugh,  "  Make  yourself  easy, 
then.  I  have  only  one  niece,  and  she  is  married  to  an  iron- 
monger and  lives  in  Exeter." 

On  entering  the  farmhouse,  Kenelm's  host  conducted  him 
straight  into  tlie  kitchen,  and  cried  out.  in  a  hearty  voice,  to 
a  comely  middle-aged  dame,  who,  with  a  stout  girl,  was  in- 
tent on  culinary  operations,  "  Holloa  !  old  woman,  I  have 
brought  you  a  guest  who  has  well  earned  his  supper, 
for  he  has  done  the  work  of  two,  and  I  have  promised  him 
a  bed." 

The  farmer's  wife  turned  sharply  round.  "  He  is  heart- 
ily welcome  to  supper.  As  to  a  bed,"  she  said,  doubtfully, 
"  I  don't  know."  But  here  her  eyes  settled  on  Kenelm  ;  and 
there  was  something  in  his  aspect  so  unlike  what  she  ex- 
pected to  see  in  an  itinerant  haymaker,  that  she  involuntarily 
dropped  a  curtsv,  and  resumed,  with  a  change  of  tone,  "  The 
gentleman  shall  have  the  guest-room  ;  but  it  will  take  a  little 


88  ■  KEN  ELM   CHIT.T.INGLY. 

time  to  get  ready — you  know,  John,  all  the  furniture  is  cov- 
ered up." 

"  Well,  wife,  there  will  be  leisure  eno'  for  that.  He  don't 
want  to  go  to  roost  till  he  has  supped." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Kenelm,  sniffing  a  very  agreeable 
odor. 

"  Where  are  the  girls  ?  "  asked  the  farmer. 

"  They  have  been  in  these  five  minutes,  and  gone  upstairs 
to  tidy  themselves." 

"  What  girls  ?  "  faltered  Kenelm,  retreating  towards  the 
door.     "  I  thought  you  said  you  had  no  nieces." 

"  But  I  did  not  say  I  had  no  daughters.  Why,  you  are 
not  afraid  of  them,  are  you  ? 

''  Sir,"  replied  Kenelm,  with  a  polite  and  politic  evasion 
of  that  question,  "  if  your  daughters  are  like  their  mother, 
you  can't  say  that  they  are  not  dangerous." 

"Come,"  cried  the  farmer,  looking  very  much  pleased, 
while  his  dame  smiled  and  blushed— "come,  that's  as  nicely 
said  as  if  you  were  canvassing  the  county.  '  Tis  not  among 
haymakers  that  you  learned  manners,  I  guess  ;  and  perhaps 
I  have  been  making  too  free  with  my  betters." 

"What!"  quoth  the  courteous  Kenelm,  "  do  you  mean 
to  implv  that  you  were  too  free  with  your  shillings  ?  Apol- 
ogize for  that,  if  you  like,  but  I  don't  think  you'll  get  back 
the  shillings.  I  have  not  seen  so  much  of  this  lite  as  you 
have,  but,  according  to  my  experience,  when  a  man  once 
parts  with  his  money,  Avhether  to  his  betters  or  his  worsers, 
the  chances  arc  that  he'll  never  see  it  again." 

At  this  aphorism  the  farmer  laughed  ready  to  kill  him- 
self, his  wife  chuckled,  and  even  the  maid-of-all-work 
grinned.  Kenelm,  preserving  his  unalterable  gravity,  said 
to  himself: 

"Wit  consists  in  the  epigrammatic  expression  of  a  com- 
monplace truth,  and  the  dullest  remark  on  the  worth  of 
money  is  almost  as  sure  of  successful  appreciation  as  the 
dullest  remark  on  the  worthlessness  of  women.  Certainly 
I  am  a  wit  without  knowing  it." 

Here  the  farmer  touched  him  on  the  shoulder — touched 
it,  did  not  slap  it,  as  he  would  have  done  ten  minutes  before 
■ — and  said  : 

"We  must  not  disturb  the  Missis,  or  we  shall  get  no  sup- 
per. I'll  just  go  and  give  a  look  into  the  cow-sheds.  Do 
you  know  much  about  cows  ?  " 

"  Yes,  cows  produce  cream  and  butter.     The  best  cows 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  .  89 

are  those  which  produce  at  the  least  cost  the  best  cream  and 
butter.  But  how  the  best  cream  and  butter  can  be  produced 
at  a  price  whicli  will  place  them  free  of  expense  on  a  poor 
man's  breakfast-table,  is  a  question  to  be  settled  by  a  Re- 
formed Parliament  and  a  Liberal  Administration.  In  the 
meanwhile  let  us  not  delay  the  supper." 

The  farmer  and  his  guest  quitted  the  kitchen  and  entered 
the  farmyard. 

"  You  are  quite  a  stranger  in  these  parts  ?" 

"Quite." 

"  You  don't  even  know  my  name  ?  " 

"No,  except  that  I  heard  your  wife  call  you  John." 

"My  name  is  John  Saunderson."' 

"Ah  !  you  come  from  the  north,  then  ?  That's  why  you 
are  so  sensible  and  shrewd.  Names  that  end  in  *  son  '  are 
chiefly  borne  by  the  descendants  of  the  Danes,  to  whom 
King  Alfred,  heaven  bless  him,  peacefully  assigned  no  less 
than  sixteen  English  counties.  And  when  a  Dane  was  called 
somebody's  son,  it  is  a  sign  that  he  was  the  son  of  a  some- 
body." 

"  By  gosh  !     I  never  heard  that  before." 

"  If  I  thought  you  had,  I  should  not  have  said  it." 

"  Now  I  have  told  you  my  name,  what  is  yours  ?" 

"A  wise  man  asks  questions  and  a  fool  answers  them. 
Suppose  for  a  moment  that  I  am  not  a  fool." 

Farmer  Saunderson  scratched  his  head,  and  looked  more 
puzzled  than  became  the  descendant  of  a  Dane  settled  by 
King  Alfred  in  the  north  of  England. 

"  Dash  it,"  said  he  at  last,  "  but  I  think  you  are  Yorkshire 
too." 

"Man,  who  is  the  most  conceited  of  all  animals,  says 
that  he  alone  has  the  prerogative  of  thought,  and  condemns 
the  other  animals  to  the  meaner  mechanical  operation  which 
he  calls  instinct.  But  as  instincts  are  unerring  and  thoughts 
generally  go  wrong,  man  has  not  much  to  boast  of  accord- 
ing to  his  own  definition.  When  you  say  you  think,  and 
take  it  for  granted  that  I  am  Yorkshire,  you  err.  I  am  not 
\orkshire.  Confining  yourself  to  instinct,  can  you  divine 
when  we  shall  sup  ?  The  cows  you  are  about  to  visit  divine 
to  a  moment  when  they  shall  be  fed." 

Said  the  farmer,  recovering  his  sense  of  superiority  to 
the  guest  whom  he  obliged  with  a  supper,  "  In  ten  minutes." 
Then,  after  a  pause,  and  in  a  tone  of  deprecation,  as  if  he 
feared  he  might  be  thought  fine,  he  continued  :  "We  don't 


9:>  KllNELM   CIIILLIXGLY. 

sup  in  the  kitchen.  My  father  did,  and  so  did  I  till  I  mar- 
ried ;  but  my  Bess,  though  she's  as  good  a  fanner's  wife  as 
ever  wore  shoe-leather,  was  a  tradesman's  daughter,  and  had 
been  brought  up  different.  You  see,  she  was  not  witliout  a 
good  bit  of  money  ;  but  even  if  she  had  been,  I  should  not 
have  liked  her  folks  to  say  I  had  lowered  her — so  we  sup  in 
the  parlor." 

Quoth  Kenelm,  "The  first  consideration  is  to  sup  at  all. 
Supper  conceded,  every  man  is  more  likely  to  get  on  in  life 
who  would  rather  sup  in  his  parlor  than  his  kitchen.  Mean- 
while, I  see  a  pump  ;  while  you  ^o  to  the  cows  I  will  stay 
here  and  wash  my  hands  of  them." 

"  Hold  ;  you  seem  a  sharp  fellow,  and  certainly  no  fool. 
I  have  a  son,  a  good  smart  chap,  but  stuck  up  ;  crows  it 
over  us  all  ;  thinks  no  small  beer  of  himself.  You'd  do  me 
a  service,  and  him  too,  if  you'd  let  him  down  a  peg  or  two." 

Kenelm,  who  was  now  hard  at  work  at  the  pump-handle, 
only  replied  by  a  gracious  nod.  But,  as  he  seldom  lost  an 
opportunity  for  rejection,  he  said  to  himself,  while  he  laved 
his  face  in  the  stream  from  the  spout,  "  One  can't  wonder 
why  every  small  man  thinks  it  so  pleasant  to  let  down  a  big 
one,  when  a  father  asks  a  stranger  to  let  down  his  own  son 
for  even  fancying  that  he  is  not  small  beer.  It  is  upon  that 
principle  in  human  nature  that  criticism  wisely  relinquishes 
its  pretensions  as  an  analytical  science  and  becomes  a  lucra- 
tive profession.  It  relies  on  the  pleasure  its  readers  find  in 
letting  a  man  down." 


CHAPTER    IX. 


It  was  a  pretty,  quaint  farmhouse,  such  as  might  go  well 
with  two  or  three  hundred  acres  of  tolerably  good  land,  tol- 
erably well  farmed  by  an  active  old-fashioned  tenant,  who, 
though  he  did  not  use  mowing-machines  nor  steam-ploughs, 
nor  dabble  in  chemical  experiments,  still  brought  an  ade- 
quate capital  to  his  land,  and  made  the  capital  yield  a  very 
fair  return  of  interest.  The  supper  was  laid  out  in  a  good- 
sized  though  low-pitched  parlor  with  a  glazed  door,  now 
wide  open,  as  were  all  the  latticed  windows,  looking  into  a 
small  garden,  rich  in  those  straggling  old  English  flowers 
which  are  nowadays  banished  from  gardens  more  pretentious 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY.  91 

and  infinitely  less  fragrant.  At  one  corner  vvas  an  arbor 
covered  with  honeysuckle,  and,  opposite  to  it,  a  row  of  bee- 
hives. The  room  itself  had  an  air  of  comfort,  and  that  sort 
of  elegance  which  indicates  the  presiding  genius  of  feminine 
taste.  There  were  shelves  suspended  to  the  wall  by  blue 
ribbons,  and  filled  with  small  books  neatly  bound  ;  there 
were  fiower-pots  in  all  the  window-sills  ;  there  was  a  small 
cottage  piano  ;  the  walls  were  graced  partly  with  engraved 
portraits  of  county  magnates  and  prize  oxen,  partly  with 
samplers  in  worsted-work,  comprising  verses  of  moral  char- 
acter and  the  names  and  birthdays  of  the  farmer's  grand- 
mother, mother,  wife,  and  daughters.  Over  the  chimney- 
piece  was  a  small  mirror,  and  above  that  the  trophy  of  a 
fox's  brush  ;  while  niched  into  an  angle  in  the  room  was  a 
glazed  cupboard,  rich  with  specimens  of  old  china,  Indian 
and  English. 

The  party  consisted  of  the  farmer,  his  wife,  three  buxom 
daughters,  and  a  pule  faced  slender  lad  of  about  twenty,  the 
only  son,  who  did  not  take  willingly  to  farming  :  he  had 
been  educated  at  a  superior  grammar  school,  and  had  high 
notions  about  the  March  of  Intellect  and  the  Progress  of 
the  Age. 

Kenelm,  though  among  the  gravest  of  mortals,  was  one 
of  the  least  shy.  In  fact  shyness  is  the  usual  symptom  of  a 
keen  amour-propre;  and  of  that  quality  the  youthful  Chil- 
lingly scarcely  possessed  more  than  did  the  three  Fishes  of 
his  hereditary  scutcheon.  He  felt  himself  perfectly  at  home 
with  his  entertainers  ;  taking  care,  however,  that  his  atten- 
tions were  so  equally  divided  between  the  three  daughters 
as  to  prevent  all  suspicion  of  a  particular  preference. 
"  There  is  safety  in  numbers,"  thought  he,  "  especially  in  odd 
numbers.  The  three  Graces  never  married,  neither  did  the 
nine  Muses." 

"  I  presume,  young  ladies,  that  you  are  fond  of  music," 
said  Kenelm,  glancing  at  the  piano. 

"  Yes,  I  love  it  dearly,"  said  the  eldest  girl,  speaking  for 
the  others. 

Quoth  the  farmer,  as  he  heaped  the  stranger's  plate  with 
boiled  beef  and  carrots,  "  Things  are  not  what  they  were 
when  I  was  a  boy  ;  then  it  was  only  great  tenant-farmers 
who  had  their  girls  taught  the  piano,  and  sent  their  boys  to 
a  good  school.  Now  we  small  folks  are  for  helping  our 
children  a  step  or  two  higher  than  our  own  place  on  the 
ladder." 


92  KENF.LM  CHILLmCLY. 

"The  sclioolrnnster  is  abroad,"  said  the  son,  with  the 
emphasis  of  a  sage  adding  an  original  aphorism  to  the  stores 
of  philosophy. 

"  There  is,  no  doubt,  a  greater  equality  of  culture  than 
there  was  in  the  last  generation,"  said  Kenelm.  "  People 
of  all  ranks  utter  the  same  commonplace  ideas  in  very  much 
the  same  arrangements  of  syntax.  And  in  proportion  as 
the  democracy  of  intelligence  extends — a  friend  of  mine, 
who  is  a  doctor,  tells  me  that  complaints  formerly  reserved 
to  what  is  called  the  aristocracy  (though  what  that  word 
means  in  plain  English  I  don't  know)  are  equally  shared  by 
the  commonalty — tic-doulourcux  and  other  neuralgic  mala- 
dies abound.  And  the  human  race,  in  England  at  least,  is 
becoming  more  slight  and  delicate.  There  is  a  fable  of  a 
man  who,  when  he  became  exceedingly  old,  was  turned  into 
a  grasshopper.  England  is  very  old,  and  is  evidently  ap- 
proaching the  grasshopper  state  of  development.  Perhaps 
we  don't  eat  as  much  beef  as  our  forefathers  did.  May  I 
ask  vou  for  another  slice  ?  " 

Kenelm's  remarks  were  somewhat  over  the  heads  of  his 
audience.  But  the  son,  taking  them  as  a  slur  upon  the  en- 
lightened spirit  of  the  age,  colored  up  and  said,  with  a 
knitted  brow,  "  I  hope,  sir,  that  you  are  not  an  enemy  to 
progress." 

"  That  depends  :  for  instance,  I  prefer  staying  here, 
where  I  am  well  off,  to  going  farther  and  faring  worse." 

"  Well  said  !  "  cried  the  farmer. 

Not  deigning  to  notice  that  interruption,  the  son  took  up 
Kenelm's  replv  with  a  sneer  :  "  I  suppose  you  mean  that  it 
is  to  fare  worse,  if  you  march  with  the  time." 

"  I  am  afraid  we  have  no  option  but  to  march  with  the 
time  ;  but  when  we  reach  that  stage  when  to  march  any  far- 
ther is  to  march  into  old  age,  wc  should  not  be  sorrv  if  time 
would  be  kind  cuough  to  stand  still  ;  and  all  good  doctors 
concur  in  advising  us  to  do  nothing  to  hurry  him." 

"  There  is  no  sign  of  old  age  in  this  country,  sir  ;  and 
thank  heaven,  we  are  not  standing  still  !" 

"  Grasshoppers  never  do  ;  they  are  always  hopping  and 
jumping,  and  making  what  they  think  *  progress,' till  (unless 
they  hop  into  the  water  and  are  swallowed  up  prematurely 
by  a  carp  or  a  frog)  they  die  of  the  exhaustion  which  hops  and 
jumps  unremitting  naturally  produce.  May  I  ask  you,  Mrs. 
Sai.inderson,  for  some  of  that  rice-pudding  ?" 

The  fanner,  who,  though  he  did  not  quite  comprehend 


KENELM   CHILUNGLY.  93 

Kcnelm's  metaphorical  mode  of  arguing,  saw  delightedly 
that  his  wise  son  looked  more  posed  than  himself,  cried  with 
great  glee,  "Bob,  my  boy, — Bob  !  our  visitor  is  a  little  too 
much  for  you  !  " 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Kenelm,  modestly.  "But  I  honestly 
think  Mr.  Bob  would  be  a  wiser  man,  and  a  weightier  man, 
and  more  removed  from  the  grasshopper  state,  if  he  would 
think  less  and  eat  more  pudding." 

When  the  supper  was  over,  the  farmer  offered  Kenelm 
a  clay  pipe  filled  with  shag,  which  that  adventurer  accepted 
with  his  habitual  resignation  to  the  ills  of  life  ;  and  the 
whole  party,  excepting  Mrs.  Saunderson,  strolled  into  the 
garden.  Kenelm  and  Mr.  Saunderson  seated  themselves  in 
the  honey-suckle  arbor  ;  the  girls  and  the  advocate  of  pro- 
gress stood  wnthout  among  the  garden  flowers.  It  was  a 
still  and  lovely  night,  the  moon  at  her  full.  The  farmer, 
seated  facing  his  hay-fields,  smoked  on  placidly.  Kenelm, 
at  the  third  whiff,  laid  aside  his  pipe,  and  glanced  furtively 
at  the  three  Graces.  They  formed  a  pretty  group,  all  clus- 
tered together  near  the  silenced  beehives,  the  two  younger 
seated  on  the  grass  strip  that  bordered  the  flower-beds,  their 
arms  over  each  other's  shoulders,  the  elder  one  standing  be- 
hind them,  with  the  moonlight  shining  soft  on  her  auburn 
hair. 

Young  Saunderson  walked  restlessly  by  himself  to  and 
fro  the  path  of  gravel. 

"  It  is  a  strange  thing,"  ruminated  Kenelm,  "that  girls 
are  not  unpleasant  to  look  at  if  you  take  them  collectively 
— two  or  three  bound  up  together  ;  but  if  you  detach  any 
one  of  them  from  the  bunch,  the  odds  are  that  she  is  as 
plain  as  a  pike-stafit".  I  wonder  whether  that  bucolical 
grasshopper,  who  is  so  enamored  of  the  hop  and  jump  that 
he  calls  'progress,'  classes  the  society  of  the  Mormons 
among  the  evidences  of  civilized  advancement.  There  is  a 
good  deal  to  be  said  in  favor  of  taking  a  whole  lot  of  wives 
as  one  may  buy  a  whole  lot  of  cheap  razors.  For  it  is  not 
impossible  that  out  of  a  dozen  a  good  one  may  be  found. 
And  then,  too,  a  whole  nosegay  of  variegated  blooms,  with 
a  faded  leaf  here  and  there,  must  be  more  agreeable  to  the 
eye  than  the  same  monotonous  solitary  lady's  smock.  But 
I  fear  these  reflections  arc  naughty  ;  let  us  change  them. 
Farmer,"  he  said  aloud,  "  I  suppose  your  handsome  daugh- 
ters are  too  fine  to  assist  you  much.  I  did  not  see  them 
among  the  haymakers." 


94  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

"Oh,  tlicy  were  there,  but  by  themselves,  in  the  back 
part  of  the  field.  I  did  not  want  them  to  mix  with  all  the 
girls,  many  of  whom  are  strangers  from  other  places.  I 
don't  know  anything  against  them  ;  but  as  I  don't  know  any- 
thing for  them,  I  thought  it  as  well  to  keep  my  lasses  apart." 

'*  But  I  should  have  supposed  it  wiser  to  keep  your  son 
apart  from  them.     I  saw  him  in  the  thick  of  those  nymphs." 

"Well,"  said  the  farmer,  musingly,  and  withdrawing  his 
pipe  from  his  lips,  "  I  don't  th.ink  lasses  not  quite  well 
brought  up,  poor  things  !  do  as  much  harm  to  the  lads  as 
they  can  do  to  proper-behaved  lasses — leastways  my  wife 
does  not  think  so.  '  Keep  good  girls  from  bad  girls,'  says 
she,  'and  good  girls  will  never  go  wrong.'  And  you  Avill 
find  there  is  something  in  that  when  you  have  girls  of  your 
own  to  take  care  of.' 

"  Without  waiting  for  that  time — which  I  trust  may  never 
occur— I  can  recognize  the  wisdom  of  your  excellent  wife's 
observation.  My  own  opinion  is,  that  a  woman  can  more 
easily  do  mischief  to  her  own  sex  than  to  ours, — since,  of 
course,  she  cannot  exist  without  doing  mischief  to  some- 
body or  other." 

"And  good,  too,"  said  the  jovial  farmer,  thumping  his 
fist  on  the  table.    "  What  should  we  be  without  the  women  ?  " 

"  Very  much  better,  I  take  it,  sir.  Adam  was  as  good  as 
gold,  and  never  had  a  qualm  of  conscience  or  stomach,  till 
Eve  seduced  him  into  eating  raw  apples." 

"  Young  man,  thou'st  been  crossed  in  love.  I  see  it  now. 
That's  wdiy  thou  look'st  so  sorrowful." 

"  Sorrowful  !  Did  you  ever  know  a  man  crossed  in  love 
who  looked  less  sorrowful  when  he  came  across  a  pudding  ? " 

"  Hey!  but  thou  canst  ply  a  good  knife  and  fork — that 
I  will  say  for  thee."  Here  the  farmer  turned  round,  and 
gazed  on  Kcnelm  with  deliberate  scrutiny.  That  scrutiny 
accomplished,  his  voice  took  a  somewhat  more  respectful 
tone,  as  he  resumed,  "  Do  you  know  that  you  puzzle  me 
somewhat  ?  " 

"  Very  likely.     I  am  sure  that  I  puzzle  myself.    Say  on." 

"  Looking  at  your  dress  and — and " 

"  The  two  shillings  you  gave  me  ?     Yes- 


"  I  took  you  for  the  son  of  some  small  farmer  like  my- 
self. But  now  I  judge  from  your  talk  that  you  are  a  college 
chap — anyhow,  a  gentleman.     Ben't  it  so  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Saunderson,  I  set  out  on  my  travels,  which 
is  not  long  ago,  with  a  strong  dislike  to  telling  lies.     But  I 


KENELM   CHILI.IXCT.V.  95 

doubt  if  a  man  can  get  long  through  this  world  without  find- 
ing that  the  faculty  of  lying  was  bestowed  on  him  by  nature 
as  a  necessary  means  of  self-preservation.  If  you  are  going 
to  ask  me  any  questions  about  myself,  I  am  sure  that  I  shall 
tell  you  lies.  Perhaps,  therefore,  it  may  be  best  for  both  if 
I.  decline  the  bed  you  proffered  me,  and  take  my  night's 
rest  under  a  hedge." 

"Pooh!  I  don't  want  to  know  more  of  a  man's  affairs 
than  he  thinks  fit  to  tell  me.  Stay  and  finish  the  haymak- 
ing. And  I  say,  lad,  I'm  glad  you  don't  seem  to  care  for 
the  girls  ;  for  I  saw  a  very  pretty  one  trying  to  flirt  with  you 
— and  if  you  don't  mind  she'll  bring  you  into  trouble." 

"How  ?     Does  she  want  to  run  away  from  her  uncle  ?" 

"  Uncle  !  Bless  you,  she  don't  live  with  him  !  She  lives 
with  her  father  ;  and  I  never  knew  that  she  wants  to  run 
away.  In  fact,  Jessie  Wiles — that's  her  name— is,  I  believe, 
a  very  good  girl,  and  everybody  likes  her— perhaps  a  little  too 
much  ;  but  tlien  she  knows  she's  a  beauty,  and  does  not  ob- 
ject to  admiration." 

"  No  woman  ever  does,  whether  she's  a  beauty  or  not. 
But  I  don't  yet  understand  why  Jessie  Wiles  should  bring 
me  into  trouble." 

"  Because  there  is  a  big  hulking  fellow  Avho  has  gone  half 
out  of  his  wits  for  her  ;  and  when  he  fancies  he  sees  any 
other  chap  too  sweet  on  her  he  thrashes  him  into  a  jelly.  So, 
youngster,  you  just  keep  your  skin  out  of  that  trap." 

"  Hem  !  And  what  does  the  girl  say  to  those  proofs  of 
affection  ?  Does  she  like  the  man  the  better  for  thrashing 
other  admirers  into  jelly?" 

"  Poor  child  !  No  ;  she  hates  the  very  sight  of  him.  But 
he  swears  she  shall  marry  nobody  else,  if  he  hangs  for  it. 
And  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  suspect  that  if  Jessie  does  seem 
to  trifle  with  others  a  little  too  lightly,  it  is  to  draw  away 
this  bully's  suspicion  from  the  only  man  I  think  she  does  care 
for — a  poor  sickly  young  fellow  who  was  crippled  by  an  acci- 
dent, and  whom  Tom  Bowles  could  brain  with  his  little 
finger." 

"  This  is  really  interesting,"  cried  Kenelm,  showing  some- 
thins:  like  excitement.  "  I  should  like  to  know  this  terrible 
suitor." 

"  That's  easy  eno',"  said  the  farmer,  dryly.  "  You  have 
only  to  take  a  stroll  with  Jessie  Wiles  after  sunset,  and  you'll 
know  more  of  Tom  Bowles  than  you  are  likely  to  forget  in 
a  month." 


96  KEN  ELM    CHILLINGLY. 

"Thank  yoii  very  much  for  your  information,"  said 
Kenehn,  in  a  soft  tone,  grateful  but  pensive.  "  1  hope  to 
profit  by  it." 

"  Do.  I  should  be  sorry  if  any  harm  came  to  thee  ;  and 
Tom  Bowles  in  one  of  his  furies  is  as  bad  to  cross  as  a  mad 
bull.  So  now,  as  we  must  be  up  early,  I'll  just  take  a  look 
round  the  stables,  and  then  off  to  bed  ;  and  I  advise  you 
to  do  the  same." 

"  Thank  you  for  the  hint.  I  see  the  young  ladies  have 
already  gone  in.     Good-night." 

Passing  through  the  garden,  Kenelm  encountered  the 
junior  Saunderson. 

"I  fear,"  said  the  Votary  of  Progress,  "that  you  liave 
found  the  governor  awful  slow.  What  have  you  been  talk- 
ing about  ? " 

"  Girls,"  said  Kenelm,  "  a  subject  always  awful,  but  not 
necessarily  slow." 

"  Girls — the  governor  been  talking  about  girls.  You 
joke." 

"  I  wish  I  did  joke,  but  that  is  a  thing  I  could  never  do 
since  I  came  upon  earth.  Even  in  the  cradle,  I  felt 
that  life  was  a  very  serious  matter  and  did  not  allow  of 
jokes.  I  remember  too  well  my  first  dose  of  castor-oil. 
You  too,  Mr.  Bob  have  doubtless  imbibed  that  initiatory 
preparation  to  tlie  sweets  of  existence.  The  corners  of 
your  mouth  have  not  recovered  fr^m  the  downward  curves 
into  which  it  so  rigidly  dragged  them.  I>ike  myself,  you 
are  of  grave  temperament,  and  not  easily  moved  to  jocu- 
larity— nay,  an  enthusiast  for  Progress  is  of  necessity  a  man 
eminently  dissatisfied  with  the  present  state  of  affairs.  And 
chronic  dissatisfaction  resents  the  momentary  relief  of  a  joke." 

"  Give  off  chaffing,  if  you  please,"  said  Bob,  lowering 
the  didascalar  intonations  of  his  voice,  "and  just  tell  me 
plainly,  did  not  my  father  say  anything  particular  about  me  ? " 

"  Not  a  word.  The  only  person  of  the  male  sex  of  whom 
he  said  anything  particular  was  Tom  Bowles." 

"  What,  fighting  Tom  !  the  terror  of  the  whole  neighbor- 
hood !  Ah,  I  guess  the  old  gentleman  is  afraid  lest  Tom 
may  fall  foul  upon  me.  But  Jessie  Wiles  is  not  worth  a 
quarrel  with  that  brute.  It  is  a  crying  shame  in  the  Gov- 
ernment  " 

"What!  has  the  Government  failed  to  appreciate  the 
heroism  of  Tom  Bowles,  or  rather  to  restrain  the  excesses 
of  its  ardor  ? " 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  97 

"  Stuff  !  it  is  a  shame  in  the  Government  not  to  have 
compelled  his  father  to  put  him  to  school.  If  education 
were  universal " 

"  You  think  there  would  be  no  brutes  in  particular.  It 
may  be  so  ;  but  education  is  universal  in  China,  and  so 
is  the  bastinado.  I  thought,  however,  that  you  said  the 
schoolmaster  was  abroad,  and  that  the  age  of  enlightenment 
was  in  full  progress." 

"Yes,  in  the  towns,  but  not  in  these  obsolete  rural  dis- 
tricts ;  and  that  brings  me  to  the  point.  I  feel  lost — thrown 
away  here.  I  have  something  in  me,  sir,  and  it  can  only 
come  out  by  collision  with  equal  minds.  So  do  me  a  favor, 
will  you  ?  " 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure." 

"  Give  the  governor  a  hint  that  he  can't  expect  me,  after 
the  education  I  have  had,  to  follow  the  plough  and  fatten 
pigs  ;  and  that  Manchester  is  the  place  for  me." 

''  Why  Manchester  ?  " 

"  Because  I  have  a  relation  in  business  there  who  will 
give  me  a  clerkship  if  the  governor  will  consent.  And  Man- 
chester rules  England." 

"  Mr.  Bob  Saunderson,  I  will  do  my  best  to  promote  your 
Avishes.  This  is  a  land  of  liberty,  and  every  man  should 
choose  his  own  walk  in  it,  so  that,  at  the  last,  if  he  goes  to 
the  dogs,  he  goes  to  them  without  that  disturbance  of 
temper  which  is  naturally  occasioned  by  the  sense  of  being 
driven  to  their  jaws  by  another  man  against  his  own  will. 
He  has  then  no  one  to  blame  but  himself.  And  that,  Mr. 
Bob,  is  a  great  comfort.  When,  having  got  into  a  scrape, 
we  blame  others,  we  unconsciously  become  imjust,  spiteful, 
uncharitable,  malignant,  perhaps  revengeful.  We  indulge 
in  feelings  which  tend  to  demoralize  the  whole  character. 
But  when  we  only  blame  ourselves,  we  become  modest  and 
penitent.  We  make  allowances  for  others.  And,  indeed, 
self-blame  is  a  salutary  exercise  of  conscience,  which  a  really 
good  man  performs  every  day  of  his  life.  And  now,  will 
you  show  me  the  room  in  which  I  am  to  sleep,  and  forget 
for  a  few  hours  that  I  am  alive  at  all — the  best  thing  that 
can  happen  to  us  in  this  world,  my  dear  Mr.  Bob  !  There's 
never  much  amiss  with  our  days,  so  long  as  we  can  forget 
all  about  them  the  moment  we  lav  our  heads  on  the  pillow." 

The  two  young  rnen  entered  the  house  amicably,  arm  in 
arm.  The  girls  had  already  retired,  but  Mrs.  Saunderson 
was  still  up  to  conduct  her  visitor  to  the  guest's  chamber—- 


98  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

a  pretty  room,  which  had  been  furnished  twenty-two  years 
ago,  on  the  occasion  of  the  farmer's  marriage,  at  the  expense 
of  Mrs.  Saunderson's  mother,  for  her  own  occupation  when- 
ever she  paid  them  a  visit.  And  with  its  dimity  curtains 
and  trellised  paper  it  still  looked  as  fresh  and  new  as  if 
decorated  and  furnished  yesterday. 

Left  alone,  Kenelm  undressed,  and,  before  he  got  into 
bed,  bared  his  right  arm,  and  doubling  it,  gravely  contem- 
plated its  muscular  development,  passing  his  left  hand  over 
that  prominence  in  the  upper  part  which  is  vulgarly  called 
the  ball.  Satisfied  apparently  with  the  size  and  the  firmness 
of  that  pugilistic  protuberance,  he  gently  sighed  forth,  "  I 
fear  I  shall  have  to  lick  Thomas  Bowles."  In  five  minutes 
more  he  was  asleep. 


CHAPTER    X. 


The  next  day  the  hay-mowing  was  completed,  and  a 
large  portion  of  the  hay  already  made  carted  away  to  be 
stacked.  Kenelm  acquitted  himself  with  a  credit  not  less 
praiseworthy  than  had  previously  won  Mr.  Saunderson's  ap- 
probation. But  instead  of  rejecting  as  before  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Miss  Jessie  Wiles,  he  contrived  towards  noon  to 
place  himself  near  to  that  dangerous  beauty,  and  commenced 
conversation.  "  I  am  afraid  I  was  rather  rude  to  you  yester- 
day, and  I  want  to  beg  pardon." 

**  Oh,"  answered  the  girl,  in  that  simple  intelligible  Eng- 
lish which  is  more  frequent  among  our  village  folks  nowa- 
days than  many  popular  novelists  would  lead  us  into  sup- 
posing—'' oh,  I  ought  to  ask  pardon  for  taking  a  liberty  in 
speaking  to  you.  But  1  thought  you'd  feel  strange,  and  I 
intended  it  kindly." 

"  I'm  sure  you  did,"  returned  Kenelm,  chivalrously  rak- 
ing her  portion  of  hay  as  well  as  his  own,  while  he  spoke. 
"  And  I  want  to  be  good  friends  with  you.  It  is  very  near 
the  time  when  we  shall  leave  off  for  dinner,  and  Mrs.  Saun- 
derson  has  filled  my  pockets  with  some  excellent  beef-sand- 
wiches, which  I  shall  be  happy  to  share  with  you,  if  you  do 
not  object  to  dine  with  me  here,  instead  of  going  home  for 
your  dinner," 


1 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  99 

The  girl  hesitated,  and  then  shook  her  head  in  dissent 
from  the  proposition. 

**  Are  you  afraid  that  your  neighbors  will  think  it 
wrong  ?  " 

Jessie  curled  up  her  lip  with  a  pretty  scorn,  and  said, 
*'  I  don't  much  care  what  other  folks  say  ;  but  isn't  it 
wrong  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least.  Let  me  make  your  mind  easy.  .lam 
here  but  for  a  day  or  two  ;  we  are  not  likely  ever  to  meet 
again  ;  but,  before  I  go,  I  should  be  glad  if  1  could  do  you 
some  little  service."  As  he  spoke  he  had  paused  from  his 
work,  and,  leaning  on  his  rake,  fixed  his  eyes,  for  the  first 
time  attentively,  on  the  fair  haymaker. 

Yes,  she  was  decidedly  pretty — pretty  to  a  rare  degree — 
luxuriant  brown  hair  neatly  tied  up,  under  a  straw  hat 
doubtless  of  her  own  plaiting  ;  for,  as  a  general  rule,  nothing 
more  educates  the  village  maid  for  the  destinies  of  flirt  than 
the  accomplishment  of  straw-plaiting.  She  had  large,  soft 
blue  eyes,  delicate  small  features,  and  a  complexion  more 
clear  in  its  healthful  bloom  than  rural  beauties  generally 
retain  against  the  influences  of  wind  and  sun.  She  smiled 
and  slightly  colored  as  he  gazed  on  her,  and,  lifting  her 
eyes,  gave  him  one  gentle,  trustful  glance,  which  might  have 
bewitched  a  philosopher  and  deceived  a  I'oue.  And  yet 
Kenelm,  by  that  intuitive  knowledge  of  character  which  is 
often  truthfulest  where  it  is  least  disturbed  by  the  doubts 
and  cavils  of  acquired  knowledge,  felt  at  once  that  in  that 
girl's  mind  coquetry,  perhaps  unconscious,  was  conjoined 
with  an  innocence  of  anything  worse  than  coquetry  as  com- 
plete as  a  child's.  He  bowed  his  head,  in  withdrawing  his 
gaze,  and  took  her  into  his  heart  as  tenderly  as  if  she  had 
been  a  child  appealing  to  it  for  protection. 

"Certainly,"  he  said  inly — "certainly  I  must  lick  Tom 
Bowles  ;  yet  stay,  perhaps  after  all  she  likes  him." 

"But,"  he  continued  aloud,  "you  do  not  see  how  I  can 
be  of  any  service  to  you.  Before  I  explain,  let  me  ask 
which  of  the  men  in  the  field  is  Tom  Bowles  ?  " 

"  Tom  Bowles  !  "  exclaimed  Jessie,  in  a  tone  of  surprise 
and  alarm,  and  turning  pale  as  she  looked  hastily  round  ; 
"you  frightened  me,  sir,  but  he  is  not  here;  he  does  not 
work  in  the  fields.  But  how  came  you  to  hear  of  Tom  Bow- 
les ?  " 

"  Dine  with  me  and  I'll  tell  you.  Look,  there  is  a  quiet 
place  in  yon  corner  under  the  thorn-trees  by  that  piece  of 


loo  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

water.  See,  they  are  leaving  off  work  :  I  will  go  for  a  can 
of  beer,  and  then,  pray,  let  me  join  yoii  there." 

Jessie  paused  fcjr  a  moment  as  if  doubtful  still  ;  then 
again  glancing  at  Kenelm,  and  assured  by  the  grave  kind- 
ness of  his  countenance,  uttered  a  scarce  audible  assent,  and 
moved  away  towards  tlie  thorn-trees. 

As  the  sun  now  stood  perpendicularly  over  their  heads, 
and  the  hand  of  the  clock  in  the  village  church  tower,  soaring 
over  the  hedgerows,  reached  the  first  hour  after  noon,  all 
work  ceased  in  a  sudden  silence  ;  some  of  the  girls  went 
back  to  their  homes  ;  those  who  stayed  grouped  together, 
apart  from  the  men,  who  took  their  way  to  the  shadows  of  a 
large  (jak-tree  in  the  hedgerow,  where  beer-kegs  and  cans 
awaited  them. 


CHAPTER   XI. 


"  And  now,"  said  Kenelm,  as  the  two  young  persons, 
having  finished  their  simple  repast,  sat  under  tlie  thorn- 
trees  and  by  the  side  of  the  water,  fringed  at  that  part  with 
tall  reeds  through  which  the  light  summer  breeze  stirred 
with  a  pleasant  murmur, — "now  I  will  talk  to  you  about 
Tom  Bowles.  Is  it  true  that  you  don't  like  that  brave 
young  fellow  ? — I  say  young,  as  I  take  his  youth  for 
granted." 

"  Like  him  !  I  hate  the  sight  of  him." 

"Did  you  always  hate  the  sight  of  him?  You  must 
surely  at  one  time  have  allowed  him  to  think  that  yon  did 
not?" 

The  girl  winced,  and  made  no  answer,  but  plucked  a 
daffodil  from  the  soil  and  tore  it  ruthlessly  to  pieces. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  like  to  serve  your  admirers  as  you  do 
that  ill-fated  flower,"  said  Kenelm,  with  some  severity  of 
tone.  "But  concealed  in  the  flower  you  may  sometimes  find 
the  sting  of  a  bee.  I  see  by  your  countenance  that  you  did 
not  tell  Tom  Bowles  that  you  hated  him  till  it  was  too  late 
to  prevent  his  losing  his  wits  for  you." 

"  No  ;  I  wasn't  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Jessie,  looking, 
nevertheless,  rather  ashamed  of  herself;  "but  I  was  silly 
and  giddy-like,  I  own  ;  and,  when  he  first  took  notice  of 
me,  I  was  pleased,  without  thinking  much  of  it,  because. 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  loi 

you  see,  Mr.  Bowles  [emphasis  on  J/r.]  is  higlier  up  than  a 
poor  girl  like  me.  He  is  a  tradesman,  and  I  am  only  a 
shepherd's  daughter — though,  indeed,  father  is  more  like 
Mr.  Saunderson's  foreman  than  a  mere  shepherd.  But  I 
never  thought  anything  serious  of  it,  and  did  not  suppose 
he  did — that  is,  at  first." 

"  So  Tom  Bowles  is  a  tradesman.     What  trade?  " 

"  A  farrier,  sir." 

"And,  I  am  told,  a  very  fine  young  man." 

"  I  don't  know  as  to  that :  he  is  very  big." 

"And  what  made  you  hate  him  ?  " 

"  The  first  thing  that  made  me  hate  him  w^as,  that  he  in- 
sulted father,  who  is  a  very  quiet,  timid  man,  and  threat- 
ened, I  don't  know  what,  if  father  did  not  make  me  keep 
company  with  him.  Make  me,  indeed  !  But  Mr.  Bowles  is 
a  dangerous,  bad-hearted,  violent  man,  and — don't  laugh  at 
me,  sir — but  I  dreamed  one  night  he  vvas  murdering  me. 
And  I  think  he  will  too,  if  he  stays  here  ;  and  so  does  his 
poor  mother,  who  is  a  very  nice  woman,  and  wants  him  to 
go  away  ;  but  he'll  not." 

"Jessie,"  said  Kenelm,  softly,  "  I  said  I  wanted  to  make 
friends  with  you.  Do  you  think  you  can  make  a  friend  of 
me  ?  I  can  never  be  more  than  friend.  But  I  should  like  to 
be  that.     Can  you  trust  me  as  one  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  girl  firmly,  and,  as  she  lifted  her 
eyes  to  him,  their  look  was  pure  from  all  vestige  of  co- 
quetry— guileless,  frank,  grateful. 

"  Is  there  not  another  young  man  who  courts  you  more 
civilly  than  Tom  Bowles  does,  and  whom  you  really  could 
find  it  in  your  heart  to  like  ?  " 

Jessie  looked  round  for  anotlier  daffodil,  and,'not  finding 
one,  contented  herself  with  a  blue-bell,  which  she  did  not 
tear  to  pieces,  but  caressed  with  a  tender  hand.  Kenelm 
bent  his  eyes  down  on  her  charming  face  with  something  in 
their  gaze  rarely  seen  there — something  of  that  unreason- 
ing, inexpressible  human  fondness,  for  which  philosophers 
of  his  school  have  no  excuse.  Had  ordinary  mortals,  like 
you  or  myself,  for  instance,  peered  through  the  leaves  of 
the  thorn-trees,  we  should  have  sighed  or  frowned,  accord' 
ing  to  our  several  temperaments,  but  we  should  all  have 
said,  whether  spitefully  or  envyingly,  "  Happy  young 
lovers  !  "  and  should  all  have  blundered  lamentably  in  so 
saying. 

Srill.  there  is  no  denvincr  the  fact  that  anrettvface  has  a 


I02  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

very  unfair  advantage  over  a  plain  one.  And,  much  to  the 
discredit  of  Kenehri's  philanthropy,  it  may  be  reasonably 
doubted  whether,  had  Jessie  Wiles  been  endowed  by  nature 
with  a  snub  nose  and  a  squint,  Kenehn  would  have  volun- 
teered his  friendly  services,  or  meditated  battle  with  Tom 
Bowles  on  her  behalf. 

But  there  was  no  touch  of  envy  or  jealousy  in  the  tone 
with  which  he  said  : 

"  I  see  there  is  some  one  you  would  like  well  enough  to 
marr}',  and  that  you  make  a  great  difference  in  the  way  you 
treat  a  daffodil  and  a  blue-bell.  Who  and  what  is  the 
young  man  whom  the  blue-bell  represents  ?  Come,  con- 
fide."^ 

*' We  were  much  brought  up  together,"  said  Jessie,  still 
looking  down,  and  still  smoothing  the  leaves  of  the  blue- 
bell. "His  mother  lived  in  the  next  cottage;  and  my 
mother  was  very  fond  of  him,  and  so  was  father  too  ;  and, 
before  I  was  ten  years  old,  they  used  to  laugh  when  poor 
Will  called  me  his  little  wife."  Here  the  tears  which  had 
started  to  Jessie's  eyes  began  to  fall  over  the  flower.  "  But 
now  father  would  not  hear  of  it ;  and  it  can't  be.  And  I've 
tried  to  care  for  some  one  else,  and  I  can't,  and  that's  the 
truth." 

"  But  why  ?  Has  he  turned  out  ill  ? — taken  to  poaching 
or  drink  ?  " 

"  No — no — no, — he's  as  steady  and  good  a  lad  as  ever 
lived.     But— but " 

"  He's  a  cripple  now — and  I  love  him  all  the  better  for 
it."     Here  Jessie  fairly  sobbed. 

Kenelm  was  greatly  moved,  and  prudently  held  his 
peace  till  sheliad  a  little  recovered  herself  ;  then,  in  answer 
to  his  gentle  questionings,  he  learned  that  Will  Somers — till 
then  a  healthy  and  strong  lad — had  fallen  from  the  height 
of  a  scaifolding,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  and  been  so  seriously 
injured  that  he  was  mcn-ed  at  once  to  the  hospital.  When 
he  came  out  of  it — what  with  the  fall,  and  what  with  the 
long  illness  which  had  followed  the  effects  of  the  accident — 
he  was  not  only  crippled  for  life,  but  of  health  so  delicate 
and  weakly  that  he  was  no  longer  fit  for  out-door  labor  and 
the  hard  life  of  a  peasant.  He  was  an  only  son  of  a  wid- 
owed mother,  and  his  sole  mode  of  assisting  her  was  a  very 
precarious  one.  He  had  taught  himself  basket-making ; 
and  though,  Jessie  said,  his  work  was  very  ingenious  and 
clever,   still  there  were  but  few  customers   for  it   in  that 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  103 

neighborhood.  And,  alas !  even  if  Jessie's  father  would 
consent  to  give  his  daughter  to  the  poor  cripple,  how  could 
the  poor  cripple  earn  enough  to  maintain  a  wife  ? 

"  And,"  said  Jessie,  "  still  I  was  happy,  walking  out  with 
him  on  Sunday  evenings,  or  going  to  sit  with  him  and  his 
mother— for  we  are  both  young  and  can  wait.  But  I  daren't 
do  it  any  more  now — for  Tom  Bowles  has  sworn  that  if  I  do 
he  will  beat  him  before  my  eyes  ;  and  Will  has  a  high  spirit, 
and  I  should  break  n)y  heart  if  any  harm  happened  to  him 
on  my  account." 

"As  for  Mr.  Bowles,  we'll  not  think  of  him  at  present. 
But  if  Will  could  maintain  himself  and  3'ou,  your  father 
would  not  object,  nor  you  either,  to  a  marriage  with  the 
poor  cripple  ?  " 

"  Father  would  not  ;  and  as  for  me,  if  it  weren't  for  dis- 
obeying father,  I'd  marry  him  to-morrow. — /can  work." 

"  They  are  going  back  to  the  hay  now  ;  but  after  that 
task  is  over,  let  me  walk  home  with  you,  and  show  me  Will's 
cottage  and  Mr.  Bowles's  shop,  or  forge." 

"  But  you'll  not  say  anything  to  Mr.  Bowles.  He 
wouldn't  mind  your  being  a  gentleman,  as  I  now  see  you 
are,  sir  ;  and  he's  dangerous— oh,  so  dangerous  ! — and  so 
strong." 

"Never  fear,"  answered  Kenelm,  with  the  nearest  ap- 
proach to  a  laugh  he  had  ever  made  since  childhood  ;  "but 
when  we  are  relieved,  wait  for  me  a  few  minutes  at  yon 
gate." 


CHAPTER   XH. 


Kenelm  spoke  no  more  to  his  new  friend  in  the  hay- 
fields  ;  but  when  the  day's  work  was  over  he  looked  round 
for  the  farmer  to  make  an  excuse  for  not  immediately  join- 
ing the  family  supper.  However,  he  did  not  see  either  Mr. 
Saunderson  or  his  son.  Both  were  busied  in  the  stackyard. 
Well  pleased  to  escape  excuse  and  the  questions  it  might 
provoke,  Kenelm  therefore  put  on  the  coat  he  had  laid  aside 
and  joined  Jessie,  who  had  waited  for  him  at  the  gate.  They 
entered  the  lane  side  by  side,  following  the  stream  of  vil- 
lagers who  were  slowly  wending  their  homeward  way.  It 
was  a  primitive  English  village,  not  adorned  on  the  one 
hand  with  fancy  or  model  cottages,  nor  on  the  other  hand 


I04  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

indicating  penury  and  squalor.  The  church  rose  before 
them  gray  and  Gothic,  backed  by  the  red  clouds  in  which 
the  sun  had  set,  and  bordered  by  the  glebe-land  of  the  half- 
seen  parsonage.  Then  came  the  village  green,  with  a  pretty 
schoolhouse  ;  and  to  this  succeeded  a  long  street  of  scat- 
tered whitewashed  cottages,  in  the  midst  of  their  own  little 
gardens. 

As  they  walked,  the  moon  rose  in  full  splendor,  silvering 
the  road  before  them. 

"Who  is  the  squire  here?"  asked  Kenelm.  "I  should 
guess  him  to  be  a  good  sort  of  man,  and  well  off." 

"  Yes, — Squire  Travers  ;  he  is  a  great  gentleman,  and 
they  say  very  rich.  But  his  place  is  a  good  way  from  this 
village.  You  can  see  it  if  you  stay,  for  he  gives  a  harvest- 
home  supper  on  Saturday,  and  Mr.  Saunderson  and  all  his 
tenants  are  going.  It  is  a  beautiful  park,  and  Miss  Travers 
is  a  sight  to  look  at.  Oh,  she  is  lovely  !"  continued  Jessie, 
with  an  unaffected  burst  of  admiration  ;  for  w^omen  are  more 
sensible  of  the  charm  of  each  other's  beauty  than  men  give 
them  credit  for. 

"  As  pretty  as  yourself  ?  " 

"  Oh,  pretty  is  not  the  word.  She  is  a  thousand  times 
handsomer  !  " 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Kenelm,  incredulously. 

There  was  a  pause,  broken  by  a  qviick  sigh  from  Jessie. 

"What  are  you  sighing  for  ?— tell  me." 

"  I  was  thinking  that  a  very  little  can  make  folks  happy, 
but  that  somehow  or  other  that  very  little  is  as  hard  to  get 
as  if  one  set  one's  heart  on  a  great  deal." 

"That's  very  wisely  said.  Everybody  covets  a  little 
something  for  which,  perhaps,  nobody  else  would  give  a 
straw.  But  what's  the  very  little  thing  for  which  you  are 
siirhinsT  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Bawtrey  wants  to  sell  tliat  shop  of  hers.  She  is 
getting  old,  and  has  had  fits  ;  and  she  can  get  nobody  to 
buy  ;  and  if  Will  had  that  shop  and  I  could  keep  it — but  'tis 
no  use  thinking  of  that." 

"  What  shop  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"There!" 

"Where?     I  see  no  shop." 

"  But  it  is  the  shop  of  the  village — the  only  one,  where 
the  post-ofBce  is." 

"Ah  !  I  see  something  at  the  windows  like  a  red  cloak. 
What  do  they  sell  ?  " 


KEN'ELM    ClllLLIMGLT.  105 

"  Everything — tea  and  sugar,  and  candles,  and  shawls, 
and  gowns,  and  cloaks,  and  mouse-traps,  and  letter-paper  ; 
and  Mrs.  Bawtrey  buys  poor  Will's  baskets,  and  sells  tliem 
for  a  good  deal  more  than  she  pays." 

"  It  seems  a  nice  cottage,  with  a  field  and  orchard  at  the 
back." 

"  Yes.  Mrs.  Bawtrey  pays  ^8  a  year  for  it ;  but  the  shop 
can  well  afford  it." 

Kenelm  made  no  reply.  They  both  walked  on  in  silence, 
and  had  now  reached  the  centre  of  the  village  street,  when 
Jessie,  looking  up,  uttered  an  abrupt  exclamation,  gave  an 
affrighted  start,  and  then  came  to  a  dead  stop. 

Kenelm's  eye  followed  the  direction  of  hers,  and  saw,  a 
few  yards  distant,  at  the  other  side  of  the  w\ay,  a  small  red 
brick  house,  with  thatched  sheds  adjoining  it,  the  whole 
standing  in  a  wnde  yard,  over  the  gate  of  which  leaned  a 
man  smoking  a  small  cutty-pipe.  "It  is  Tom  Bowles," 
whispered  Jessie,  and  instinctively  she  twined  her  arm  into 
Kenelm's— then,  as  if  on  second  thoughts,  withdrew  it,  and 
said,  still  in  a  whisper,  "  Go  back  now,  sir — ^do." 

"  Not  I.  It  is  Tom  Bowles  whom  I  want  to  know. 
Hush  ! " 

For  here  Tom  Bowles  had  thrown  down  his  pipe  and  was 
coming  slowly  across  the  road  towards  them. 

Kenelm  eyed  him  with  attention.  A  singularly  power- 
ful man,  not  so  tall  as  Kenelm  by  some  inches,  but  still 
above  the  middle  height,  herculean  shoulders  and  chest,  the 
lower  limbs  not  in  equal  proportion — a  sort  of  slouching, 
shambling  gait.  As  he  advanced,  the  moonlight  fell  on  his 
face, — it  was  a  handsome  one.  He  wore  no  hat,  and  his  hair, 
of  a  light  brown,  curled  close.  His  face  was  fresh-colored, 
with  aquiline  features  ;  his  age  apparently  about  six  or  seven- 
and-twenty.  Coming  nearer  and  nearer,  whatever  favorable 
impression  the  first  glance  at  his  physiognomy  might  have 
made  on  Kenelm  was  dispelled,  for  the  expression  of  his 
face  changed  and  became  fierce  and  lowering. 

Kenelm  was  still  walking  on,  Jessie  by  his  side,  when 
Bowles  rudely  thrust  himself  between  them,  and  seizing  the 
girl's  arm  with  one  hand,  he  turned  his  face  full  on  Kenelm, 
with  a  menacing  wave  of  the  other  hand,  and  said,  in  a  deep 
burlv  voice  : 

"'Who  be  you  ?  " 

"  Let  go  that  young  woman  before  I  tell  you." 

"  If  you  weren't  a  stranger,"  answered  Bowles,  seeming 


io6  KEN  ELM    CHILLINGLY. 

as  if  he  tried  to  repress  a  rising  fit  of  wralh,  "  you'd  be  in 
the  kennel  for  tliose  words.  But  I  s'pose  you  don't  know 
that  I'm  Tom  Bowles,  and  I  don't  choose  the  girl  as  Tni  after 
to  keep  company  witii  any  other  man.     So  you  be  off." 

"And  1  clon't  choose  any  other  man  to  lay  violent  hands 
on  any  girl  walking  by  my  side  without  telling  him  that  he's 
a  brute,  and  tliat  1  only  wait  till  he  has  both  his  hands  at 
liberty  to  let  him  know  tiiat  he  has  not  a  poor  cripple  to 
deal  with." 

Tom  Bowles  could  scarcely  believe  his  ears.  Amaze 
swallowed  up  for  the  moment  every  other  sentiment.  Me- 
chanically he  loosened  his  hold  of  Jessie,  who  fled  off  like  a 
bird  released.  But  evidently  she  thought  of  her  new  friend's 
danger  more  than  her  own  escape  ;  for,  instead  of  sheltering 
herself  in  her  father's  cottage,  she  ran  towards  a  group  of 
laborers,  who,  near  at  hand,  had  stopped  loitering  before  the 
public-house,  and  returned  with  those  allies  towards  the  spot 
in  which  she  had  left  the  two  men.  She  was  very  popidar 
M'ith  the  villagers,  who,  strong  in  the  sense  of  numbers,  o\er- 
came  their  awe  of  Tom  Bowles,  and  arrived  at  the  place  half 
running,  half  striding,  in  time,  they  hoped,  to  interpose  be- 
tween his  terrible  arm  and  the  bones  of  the  unoffending 
stranger. 

Meanwhile  Bowles,  having  recovered  his  first  astonish- 
ment, and  scarcely  noticing  Jessie's  escape,  still  left  his  i  ight 
arm  extended  towards  the  place  she  had  vacated,  and  with  a 
quick  back-stroke  of  the  left  levelled  at  Kenelm's  face, 
growled  contemptuously,  "  Thou'lt  find  one  hand  enough 
for  thee." 

But  quick  as  was  his  aim,  Kenelm  caught  the  lifted  arm 
just  above  the  elbow,  causing  the  blow  to  waste  itself  on  air, 
and  with  a  simultaneous  advance  of  his  right  knee  and  foot 
dexterously  tripped  up  his  bulky  antagonist,  and  laid  him 
sprawling  on  his  back.  The  movement  was  so  sudden,  and 
the  stun  it  occasioned  so  utter,  morally  as  well  as  physically, 
that  a  minute  or  more  elapsed  before  Tom  Bowles  picked 
himself  up.  And  he  then  stood  another  n)inute  glowering 
at  his  antagonist  with  a  vague  sentiment  of  awe  almost  like 
a  superstitious  panic.  For  it  is  noticeable  that,  however 
fierce  and  fearless  a  man  or  even  a  wild  beast  may  be,  yet  if 
either  has  hitherto  been  only  familiar  with  victory  and  tri- 
umph, never  yet  having  met  with  a  foe  that  could  cope  with 
its  force,  the  first  effect  of  a  defeat,  especially  from  a  de- 
spised  adversary,    unhinges   and   half  paralyzes   the  whole 


•       KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  107 

nervous  system.  But  as  fighting  Tom  gradually  recovered 
to  the  consciousness  of  his  own  strength,  and  the  recollec- 
tion that  it  had  been  only  foiled  by  the  skilful  trick  of  a 
wrestler,  not  the  hand-to-hand  might  of  a  pugilist,  the  panic 
vanished,  and  Tom  Bowles  was  himself  again.  "  Oh,  that's 
your  sort,  is  it?"  said  he.  "We  don't  fight  with  our  heels 
hereabouts,  like  Cornishers  and  donkeys  ;  we  fight  with  our 
fists,  youngster  ;  and  since  you  K////have  about  at  that,  why 
you  must." 

"  Providence,"  answered  Kenelm,  solemnly,  "  sent  me  to 
this  village  for  the  express  purpose  of  licking  Tom  Bowles. 
It  is  a  signal  mercy  vouchsafed  to  yourself,  as  you  will  one 
day  acknowledge." 

Again  a  thrill  of  awe,  something  like  that  which  the 
demagogue  in  Aristophanes  might  have  felt  when  braved  by 
the  sausage-maker,  shot  through  the  valiant  heart  of  Tom 
Bowles.  He  did  not  like  those  ominous  words,  and  still  less 
the  lugubrious  tone  of  voice  in  which  they  were  uttered. 
But  resolved,  at  least,  to  proceed  to  battle  with  more  pre- 
paration than  he  had  at  first  designed,  he  now  deliberately 
disencumbered  himself  of  his  heavy  fustian  jacket  and  vest, 
rolled  up  his  shirt  sleeves,  and  then  slowly  advanced  towards 
the  foe. 

Kenelm  had  also,  with  still  greater  deliberation,  taken  off 
his  coat— which  he  folded  up  with  care,  as  being  both  anew 
and  an  only  one,  and  deposited  by  the  hedge-side — and  bared 
arms,  lean'indeed,  and  almost  slight,  as  compared  with  the 
vast  muscle  of  his  adversary,  but  firm  in  sinew  as  the  hind- 
leg  of  a  stag. 

"  By  this  time  the  laborers,  led  by  Jessie,  had  arrived  at 
the  spot,  and  were  about  to  crowd  in  between  the  combat- 
ants, when  Kenelm  waved  them  back,  and  said  in  a  calm  and 
impressive  voice  : 

"  Stand  round,  my  good  friends,  make  a  ring,  and  see 
that  it  is  fair  play  on  my  side.  I  am  sure  it  will  be  fair  on 
Mr.  Bowles's.  He's  big  enough  to  scorn  what  is  little.  And 
now,  Mr.  Bowles,  just  a  word  with  you  in  the  presence  of 
your  neighbors.  1  am  not  going  to  say  anything  uncivil.  If 
you  are  rather  rough  and  hasty,  a  man  is  not  always  master 
of  himself — at  least  so  I  am  told— when  he  thinks  more  than 
he  ought  to  do  about  a  pretty  girl.  But  I  can't  look  at  your 
face  even  by  this  moonlight,  and  though  its  expression  at 
this  moment  is  rather  cross,  without  being  sure  that  you  are 


io8  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

a  fine  fellow  at  bottom.  And  that  if  you  give  a  promise  as 
man  to  man  you  will  keep  it.     Is  that  so? " 

One  or  two  of  the  bystanders  murmured  assent ;  the 
others  pressed  round  in  silent  wonder. 

"  What's  all  that  soft-sawder  about  ? "  said  Tom  Bowles, 
somewhat  falteringly. 

"  Simply  this  :  if  in  the  fight  between  us  I  beat  you,  I  ask 
you  to  promise  before  your  neighbors  that  you  will  not  by 
word  or  deed  molest  or  interfere  again  Avith  Miss  Jessie 
Wiles." 

"  Eh  !  "  roared  Tom.     '*  Is  it  that  iw«  are  after  her  ? " 

"  Suppose  I  am,  if  that  pleases  you  ;  and,  on  my  side,  I 
promise  that,  if  you  beat  me,  I  quit  this  place  as  soon  as  you 
leave  me  well  enough  to  do  so,  and  will  never  visit  it  again. 
What !  do  you  hesitate  to  promise  ?  Are  you  really  afraid  I 
shall  lick  you  ?  " 

"You  !  I'd  smash  a  dozen  of  you  to  powder." 

"  In  that  case,  you  are  safe  to  promise.  Come,  'tis  a  fair 
bargain.     Isn't  it,  neighbors  ?" 

Won  over  by  Kenelm's  easy  show  of  good  temper,  and 
by  the  sense  of  justice,  the  bystanders  joined  in  a  common 
exclamation  of  assent. 

"Come,  Tom,"  said  an  old  fellow,  "the  gentleman  can't 
speak  fairer ;  and  we  shall  all  think  you  be  afeard  if  you 
hold  back." 

Tom's  face  worked;  but  at  last  he  growled,  "Well,  I 
promise — that  is,  if  he  beats  me." 

"All  right,"  said  Kenelm.  "You  hear,  neighbors  ;  and 
Tom  Bowles  could  not  show  that  handsome  face  of  his 
among  you  if  he  broke  his  word.      Shake  hands  on  it." 

Fighting  Tom  sulkily  shook  hands. 

"Well,  now,  that's  what  I  call  English,"  said  Kenelm, — 
"all  pluck  and  no  malice.  Fall  back,  friends,  and  leave  a 
clear  space  for  us." 

The  men  all  receded  ;  and  as  Kenelm  took  his  ground, 
there  was  a  supple  ease  in  his  posture  which  at  once  brought 
out  into  clearer  evidence  the  nervous  strength  of  his  build, 
and,  contrasted  with  Tom's  bulk  of  chest,  made  the  latter 
look  clumsy  and  top-heavy. 

The  two  men  laced  each  other  a  minute,  the  eyes  of  both 
vigilant  and  steadfast.  Tom's  blood  began  to  fire  up  as  he 
gazed — nor,  with  all  his  outward  calm,  was  Kenelm  insensi- 
ble of  that  proud  beat  of  the  heart  which  is  aroused  by  the 
fierce  joy  of  combat.     Tom  struck  out  first,  and  a  blow  was 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  109 

parried,  but  not  returned  ;  another  and  another  blow — still 
parried — still  unreturned.     Kenelm,  acting  evidently  on  the 
defensive,  took  all  the  advantages  for  that  strategy  which  he 
derived  from  superior  length  of  arm  and  lighter  agility  of 
frame.     Perhaps  he  wished   to  ascertain  the  extent  of  his 
adversary's  skill,  or  to  try  the  endurance  of  his  wind,  before 
he  ventured  on  the  hazards  of  attack.     Tom,  galled  to  tlie 
quick  that  blows  which  might  have  felled  an  ox  were  thus 
warded  off  from  their  mark,  and  dimly  aware  that  he  was 
encountering  some  mysterious  skill  which  turned  his  brute 
strength  into  waste  force  and  might  overmaster  him  in  the 
long-run,  came  to   a  rapid  conclusion  that  the  sooner  he 
brought  that  brute  strength  to  bear,  the  better  it  would  be 
for  him.     Accordingly,  after  three  rounds,  in  which,  without 
once  breaking  the  guard  of  his  antagonist,  he  had  received 
a  few  playful  taps  on  the  nose  and  mouth,  he  drew  back,  and 
made  a  bull-like  rush  at  his  foe — bull-like,  for  it  butted  full 
at  him  with  the  powerful  down-bent  head,  and  the  two  fists 
doing  duty  as  horns.     The  rush  spent,  he  found  himself  in 
the  position  of  a  man  milled.    I  take  it  for  granted  that  every 
Englishman  who  can  call  himself  a  man — that  is,  every  man 
who  has  been  an  English  boy,  and,  as  such,  been  compelled 
to  the  use  of  his  fists — knows  what  "a  mill  "  is.     But  I  sing 
not   only  "pueris"but   "  virginibus."     Ladies,   "a  mill" — 
using,  with  reluctance  and  contempt  for  myself,  that  slang 
in  which  lady-writers  indulge,  and  Girls  of  the  Period  know 
much   better  than  they  do  their  Murray — "  a  mill  " — speak- 
ing not  to  lady- writers,  not  to  Girls  of  the  Period,  but  to  in- 
nocent damsels,  and  in  explanation  to  those  foreigners  who 
only  understand  the  English  language  as  taught  by  Addison 
and  Macaulay — "a  mill,"  periphrastically,  means  this  :  your 
adversary,  in  the  noble  encounter  between  fist  and  fist,  has 
so  plunged  his  head  that  it  gets  caught,  as  in  a  vice,  between 
the  side  and  doubled  left  arm  of  the  adversary,  exposing  that 
head,  unprotected  and  helpless,  to  be  pounded  out  of  recog- 
nizable shape  by  the  right  fist  of  the  opponent.     It  is  a  sit- 
uation in  which  superiority  of  force  sometimes  finds  itself, 
and  is   seldom    spared  by  disciplined  superiority  of  skill. 
Kenelm,  his   right  fist  raised,  paused  for  a  moment,  then, 
loosening  the  left  arm,  releasing  the  prisoner,   and  giving 
him  a  friendly  slap  on  the  shoulder,  he  turned  around  to  the 
spectators,  and  said,  apologetically,  "  He  has  a  handsome 
face — it  would  be  a  shame  to  spoil  it." 

Tom's  position  of  oeril  was  so  obvious  to  all,  and  that 


no  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

good-humored  abnegation  of  the  advantage  which  the  posi- 
tion gave  to  the  adversary  seemed  so  geneious,  that  the  la- 
borers actually  hurrahed.  Tom  himself  felt  as  if  treated 
like  a  child  ;  and  alas,  and  alas  for  him  1  in  wheeling  round, 
and  regathcring  himself  up,  his  eye  rested  on  Jessie's  face. 
Her  lips  were  apart  with  breathless  terror;  he  fancied  they 
were  apart  with  a  smile  of  contempt.  And  now  he  became 
formidable.  He  fought  as  fights  the  bull  in  presence  of  the 
heifer,  wlio,  as  he  knows  too  well,  will  g<j  with  the  conqueror. 

If  Tom  had  never  yet  fought  with  a  man  taught  by  a  prize- 
fighter, so  never  yet  had  Kenelm  encountered  a  strength 
which,  but  for  the  lack  of  that  teaching,  would  have  con- 
quered his  own.  He  could  act  no  longer  on  the  defensive; 
he  could  no  longer  plav,  like  a  dexterous  fencer,  with  the 
sledge-hammers  of  those  mighty  arms.  They  broke  through 
his  guard — they  sounded  on  his  chest  as  on  an  anvil.  He  felt 
that  did  they  alight  on  his  head  he  was  a  lost  man.  He  felt 
also  that  the  blows  spent  on  the  chest  of  his  adversary  were 
idle  as  the  stroke  of  a  cane  on  the  hide  of  a  rhinoceros. 
But  now  his  nostrils  dilated,  liis  eyes  flashed  fire — Kenelm 
Chillingly  had  ceas-d  to  be  a  philosopher.  Crash  came  his 
blow— how  unlike  the  swinging  roundabout  hits  of  Tom 
Bowles  ! — straight  to  its  aim  as  the  rifle-ball  of  a  Tyrolese,  or 
a  British  marksman  at  Aldershot — all  the  strength  of  nerve, 
sinew,  purpose,  and  mind  concentred  in  its  vigor, — crash  just 
at  that  part  of  the  front  where  the  eyes  meet,  and  followed 
up  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning,  flash  upon  flash,  by  a  more 
restrained  but  more  disabling  blow  with  the  left  hand  just 
where  the  left  ear  meets  throat  and  jaw-bone. 

At  the  first  blow  Tom  Bowles  had  reeled  and  staggered, 
at  the  second  lie  threw  up  his  hands,  made  a  jump  in  the  air 
as  if  shot  through  the  heart,  and  then  heavily  fell  forwards, 
an  inert  mass. 

The  spectators  pressed  round  him  in  terror.  They  thought 
he  was  dead.  Kenelm  knelt,  passed  quickly  his  hand  over 
Tom's  lips,  pulse,  and  heart,  and  then  rising,  said,  humbly  and 
with  an  air  of  apology  : 

"  If  he  had  been  a  less  magnificent  creature,  I  assure  you 
on  my  honor  that  I  should  never  have  ventured  that  second 
blow.  The  first  would  have  done  for  any  man  less  splendidly 
endowed  by  nature.  Lift  him  gently  ;  take  him  home.  Tell 
his  mother,  with  my  kind  regards,  that  I'll  call  and  see  her 
and  him  to-morrow.  And,  stop,  docs  he  ever  drink  too  much 
beer?" 


KE.VEL.'I    CHILLINGLY.  in 

"Well,"  said  one  the  villagers,  "Tom  can  drink." 

•*  I  thought  so.  Too  much  flesh  for  that  muscle.  Go 
tor  the  nearest  doctor.  You,  my  lad  .' — good — off  with  you 
— quick  !  No  danger;  but  perhaps  it  may  be  a  case  for 
the  lancet." 

Tom  Bowles  was  lifted  tenderly  by  four  of  the  stoutest 
men  present  and  borne  into  his  home,  evincing  no  sign  of 
consciousness,  but  his  face,  where  not  clouted  with  blood, 
very  pale,  very  calm,  with  a  slight  froth  at  the  lips. 

Kenelm  pulled  down  his  shirt  sleeves,  put  on  his  coat, 
and  turned  to  Jessie  : 

"  Now,  my  young  friend,  show  me  Will's  cottage." 

The  girl  came  to  him  white  and  trembling.  She  did  not 
drire  to  speak.  The  stranger  had  become  a  new  man  in  her 
eyes.  Perhaps  he  frightened  her  as  much  as  Tom  Bowles 
had  done.  But  she  quickened  her  pace,  leaving  the  public- 
house  behind,  till  she  came  to  the  farther  end  of  tlie  village. 
Kenelm  walked  beside  her,  muttering  to  himself  ;  and 
though  Jessie  caught  his  words,  happily  she  did  not  under- 
stand, for  they  repeated  one  of  those  bitter  reproaclics  on 
her  sex,  as  the  main  cause  of  all  strife,  bloodshed,  and  mis- 
chief in  general,  with  Avhich  the  classic  authors  abound. 
His  spleen  soothed  by  that  recourse  to  the  lessons  of  the 
ancients,  Kenelm  turned  at  last  to  his  silent  companion, 
and  said,  kindly  but  gravely  : 

"  Mr.  Bowles  has  given  me  his  promise,  and  it  is  fair 
that  I  should  now  ask  a  promise  from  you.  It  is  this — just 
consider  how  easily  a  girl  so  pretty  as  you  can  be  the  cause 
of  a  man's  death.  Had  Bowles  struck  me  where  I  struck 
him,  I  should  have  been  past  the  help  of  a  surgeon." 

"Oh!"  groaned  Jessie,  shuddering,  and  covering  her 
face  with  both  hands. 

"  And,  putting  aside  that  danger,  consider  that  a  man 
nay  be  hit  mortally  on  the  heart  as  well  as  on  the  head,  and 
that  a  woman  has  much  to  answer  for  who,  no  matter  what 
her  excuse,  forgets  what  misery  and  what  guilt  can  be  in- 
flicted l;y  a  word  from  her  lip  and  a  glance  from  her  eve. 
Consider  this,  and  promise  that,  whether  you  marry  Will 
Somers  or  not,  you  will  never  again  give  a  man  fair  cause 
to  think  you  can  like  him  unless  your  own  heart  tells  you 
that  you  can.     Will  you  promise  that  ?  " 

"  I  will,  indeed — indeed."  Poor  Jessie's  voice  died  in 
sobs. 

"  Tli'^re,  my  child,  I  don't  ask  you  not  to  cry,  because   I 


112  KENELM    CHILLINGLY. 

know  how  much  women  like  crying,  and  in  this  instance  it 
does  you  a  great  deal  of  good.  But  we  are  just  at  the  end 
of  the  vilhige.     Which  is  Will's  cottage  ?  " 

Jessie  lifted  her  head,  and  pointed  to  a  solitary,  small 
thatched  cottage. 

"  I  would  ask  you  to  come  in  and  introduce  me  ;  but 
that  might  look  too  much  like  crowing  over  poor  Tom 
Bowles.  So  good-night  to  you,  Jessie,  and  forgive  me  for 
preaching." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


Kenelm  knocked  at  the  cottage  door  :  a  voice  said  faint- 
ly, "  Come  in." 

He  stooped  his  head,  and  stepped  over  the  threshold. 

Since  his  encounter  with  Tom  Bowles,  his  sympathies 
had  gone  with  that  unfortunate  lover — it  is  natural  to  like  a 
man  after  you  have  beaten  him  ;  and  he  was  by  no  means 
predisposed  to  favor  Jessie's  preference  for  a  sickly  cripple. 

Yet,  when  two  bright,  soft,  dark  eyes,  and  a  pale  intel- 
lectual countenance,  with  that  nameless  aspect  of  refine- 
ment which  delicate  health  so  often  gives,  especially  to  the 
young,  greeted  his  quiet  gaze,  his  heart  was  at  once  Avon 
over  to  the  side  of  the  rival.  Will  Somers  was  seated  by  the 
hearth,  on  which  a  few  live  embers,  despite  the  warmth  of 
the  summer  evening,  still  burned  ;  a  rude  little  table  was  by 
his  side,  on  which  were  laid  osier  twigs  and  white  peeled 
chips,  together  with  an  open  book.  His  hands,  pale  and 
slender,  were  at  work  on  a  small  basket  half  finished.  His 
mother  w^as  just  clearing  away  the  tea-things  from  another 
table  that  stood  by  the  window.  Will  rose,  with  the  good 
breeding  that  belongs  to  the  rural  peasant,  as  the  stranger 
entered  ;  the  widow  looked  round  with  surprise,  and  dropped 
her  simple  curtsy — a  little  thin  woman,  with  a  mild  patient 
face. 

The  cottage  was  very  tidily  kept,  as  it  is  in  most  village 
homes  where  the  woman  has  it  her  own  way.  The  deal 
dresser  opposite  the  door  had  its  display  of  humble  crock- 
ery. The  whitewashed  walls  were  relieved  with  colored 
prints,  chiefly  Scriptural  subjects  from  the  New  Testament, 
such  as  the  return  of  the  Prodigal  Son,  in  a  blue  coat  and 
yellow  inexpressibles,  with  his  stockings  about  his  heels. 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY.  113 

At  one  corner  there  were  piled  up  baskets  of  various 
sizes,  and  at  another  corner  was  an  open  cupboard  contain- 
ing books — an  article  of  decorative  furniture  found  in  cot- 
tages much  more  rarely  than  colored  prints  and  gleaming 
crockery. 

All  this,  of  course,  Kenelm  could  not  at  a  glance  com- 
prehend in  detail.  But  as  the  mind  of  a  man  accustomed 
to  generalization  is  marvellously  quick  in  forming  a  sound 
judgment,  whereas  a  mind  accustomed  to  dwell  only  on  de- 
tail is  wonderfully  slow  at  arriving  at  any  judgment  at  all, 
and  when  it  does,  the  probability  is  that  it  will  arrive  at  a 
wrong  one,  Kenelm  judged  correctly  when  he  came  to  this 
conclusion  :  "  I  am  among  simple  English  peasants  ;  but, 
for  some  reason  or  other,  not  to  be  explained  by  the  rela- 
tive amount  of  wages,  it  is  a  favorable  specimen  of  that 
class." 

''  I  beg  your  pardon  for  intruding  at  this  hour,  Mrs.  Som- 
ers,"  said  Kenelm,  who  had  been  too  familiar  with  peasants 
from  his  earliest  childhood  not  to  know  how  quickly,  when 
in  the  presence  of  their  household  gods,  they  appreciate 
respect,  and  how  acutely  they  feel  the  want  of  it.  "  But 
my  stay  in  the  village  is  very  short,  and  I  should  not  like 
to  leave  without  seeing  your  son's  basket-work,  of  which  I 
have  heard  much." 

"You  are  very  good,  sir,"  said  Will,  with  a  pleased  smile 
that  wonderfully  brightened  up  his  face.  "  It  is  only  just 
a  few  common  things  that  I  keep  by  me.  Any  finer  sort 
of  work  I  mostly  do  by  order." 

"You  see,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Somers,  "it  takes  so  much 
more  time  for  pretty  work-baskets,  and  such  like  ;  and  un- 
less done  to  order,  it  might  be  a  chance  if  he  could  get  it 
sold.  But  pray  be  seated,  sir,"  and  Mrs.  Somers  placed  a 
chair  for  her  visitor,  '-while  I  just  run  up-stairs  for  tlie 
work-basket  which  my  son  has  made  for  Miss  Travers.  It 
is  to  go  home  to-morrow,  and  I  put  it  away  for  fear  of  acci- 
dents." 

Kenelm  seated  himself,  and,  drawing  his  chair  near  to 
Will's,  took  up  the  half-finished  basket  which  the  young 
man  had  laid  down  on  the  table. 

"  This  seems  to  me  very  nice  and  delicate  workmanship," 
said  Kenelm;  "  and  the  shape,  when  you  have  finished  it, 
will  be  elegant  enough  to  please  the  taste  of  a  lady." 

"It  is  for  Mrs.  Lethbridge,"  said  Will;  ''she  wanted 
something  to  hold  cards  and  letters  ;  and  I  took  the   shape 


114  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

from  a  book  of  drawings  which  Mr.  Lcthbridge  kindly  lent 
nie.  You  know  Mr.  Lethbridge,  sir  ?  He  is  a  very  good 
gentleman." 

"  No,  I  don't  know  him.     Who  is  he  ?  " 

'■'■  Our  clergyman,  sir.     This  is  the  book." 

To  Kenelm's  surprise,  it  was  a  work  on  Pompeii,  and 
contained  woodcuts  of  the  implements  and  ornaments,  mo- 
saics and  frescoes,  found  in  tliat  memorable  little  city. 

"  I  see  this  is  your  model,"  said  Kenelm  ;  "  what  they 
call  Ti patera,  and  rather  a  famous  one.  You  are  copying  it 
much  more  trutlifuUv  than  I  should  have  supposed  it  pos- 
sible to  do  in  substituting  basket-work  forbronze.  But  you 
observe  that  much  of  the  beauty  of  this  shallow  bowl  de- 
pends on  tlie  two  doves  perched  on  the  brim.  You  can't 
manage  that  ornamental  addition." 

"  Mrs.  Lethbridge  thought  of  putting  there  two  little 
stuffed  canary-birds." 

"  Did  she  ?     Good  heavens  !  "  exclaimed  Kenelm. 

"  But  somehow,"  continued  Will,  "  I  did  not  like  that, 
and  I  made  bold  to  say  so." 

"Why  did  not  you  like  it?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  ;  but  I  did  not  think  it  would  be  the 
right  thing." 

"It  would  have  been  very  bad  taste,  and  spoilt  the  ef- 
fect of  your  basket-work  ;  and  I'll  endeavor  to  explain  why. 
You  see  here,  in  the  next  page,  a  drawing  of  a  very  beauti- 
ful statue.  Of  course  this  statue  is  intended  to  be  a  repre- 
sentation of  nature — but  nature  idealized.  You  don't  know 
the  meaning  of  that  hard  word,  idealized,  and  very  few  peo- 
ple do.  But  it  means  the  performance  of  a  something  in 
art  according  to  the  idea  which  a  man's  mind  forms  to  it- 
self out  of  a  something  in  nature.  That  something  in  nature 
must,  of  course,  have  been  carefully  studied  before  the  man 
can  work  out  anything  in  art  by  which  it  is  faithfully  repre- 
sented. The  artist,  for  instance,  who  made  that  statue, 
must  have  known  the  proportions  (jf  the  human  frame.  He 
must  have  made  studies  of  various  ])arts  of  it — heads  and 
liands,  and  arms  and  legs,  and  so  forth — and,  ha\'ing  done 
so,  he  then  puts  together  all  his  various  studies  of  details,  so 
as  to  form  a  new  whole,  which  is  intended  to  personate  an 
idea  formed  in  his  own  mind.     Do  you  go  with  me  ?  " 

"  Partly,  sir  ;  but  I  am  puzzled  a  little  still." 

"  Of  course  vou  are  ;  but  vou'U  puzzle  yourself  right  if 
you  think  over  what  I   sa3'.      Now  if,  in  order  to  make  this 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY.  115 

statue,  which  is  composed  of  metal  or  stone,  more  natural, 
I  stuck  on  it  a  wig  of  real  hair,  would  not  you  feel  at  once 
that  I  had  spoilt  the  work — that,  as  you  clearly  express  it, 
'it  would  not  be  the  right  thing'? — and,  instead  of  making 
the  work  of  art  more  natural,  1  should  have  made  it  laugh- 
ably unnatural,  by  forcing  insensibly  upon  the  mind  of 
.him  who  looked  at  it  the  contrast  between  the  real  life,  re- 
presented by  a  wig  of  actual  hair,  and  the  artistic  life, 
represented  by  an  idea  embodied  in  stone  or  metal.  The 
higher  the  work  of  art  (that  is,  the  higher  the  idea  it  repre- 
sents as  a  new  combination  of  details  taken  from  nature), 
the  more  it  is  degraded  or  spoilt  by  an  attempt  to  give  it  a 
kind  of  reality  which  is  out  of  keeping  with  the  materials 
employed.  But  the  same  rule  applies  to  everything  in  art, 
however  humble.  And  a  couple  of  stuffed  canary-birds  at 
the  brim  of  a  basket-work  imitation  of  a  Greek  drinking- 
cup  would  be  as  bad  taste  as  a  wig  from  the  barber's  on  the 
head  of  a  marble  statue  of  Apollo." 

"  I  see,"  said  Will,  his  head  downcast,  like  a  man  ponder- 
ing— "  at  least  I  think  I  see  ;  and  I'm  very  much  obliged  to 
you,  sir." 

Mrs.  Somcrs  had  long  since  returned  with  the  work-bas- 
ket, but  stood  with  it  in  her  liands,  not  daring  to  interrupt 
the  gentleman,  and  listening  to  his  discourse  with  as  much 
patience  and  as  little  comprehension  as  if  it  had  been  one 
of  the  controversial  sermons  upon  Ritualism  with  which  on 
great  occasions  Mr.  Lethbridge  favored  his  congregation. 

Kenelm  having  now  exhausted  his  critical  lecture — from 
which  certain  poets  and  novelists,  who  contrive  to  carica- 
ture the  ideal  by  their  attempt  to  put  wigs  of  real  hair  upon 
the  heads  of  stone  statues,  might  borrow  a  useful  hint  or  two 
if  they  would  condescend  to  do  so,  which  is  not  likely — per- 
ceived Mrs.  Somers  standing  by  him,  took  from  her  the  bas- 
ket, which  was  really  very  pretty  and  elegant,  subdivided 
into  various  compartments  for  the  implements  in  use  among 
ladies,  and  bestowed  on  it  a  well-merited  eulogium. 

"The  young  lady  means  to  finish  it  herself  with  ribbons 
and  line  it  with  satin,"  said  Mrs.  Somers,  proudly. 

"  The  ribbons  will  not  be  amiss,  sir  ?  "  said  Will,  inter- 
rogatively. 

"  Not  at  all.  Your  natural  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things, 
tells  you  that  ribbons  go  well  with  straw  and  light  straw- 
like  work  such  as  this  ;  though  you  would  not  put  ribbons 
on   those  rude   hampers   and  game-baskets   in  the   corner. 


ii6  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

Like  to  like  ;  a  stout  cord  goes  suitably  with  them  ;  just  as 
a  poet  who  understands  his  art  employs  pretty  expressions 
for  poems  intended  to  be  pretty  and  suit  a  fasliionable 
drawing-room,  and  carefully  shuns  them  to  substitute  a 
simple  cord  for  poems  intended  to  be  strong  and  travel  far, 
despite  of  rough  usage  by  the  way.  But  you  really  ought 
to  make  much  more  money  by  this  fancy  work  than  you 
could  as  a  day  laborer." 

Will  sighed.  "  Not  in  this  neighborhood,  sir,  I  might 
in  a  town." 

"Why  not  move  to  a  town,  then  ?' 

The  young  man  colored,,  and  shook  his  head. 

Kenelm  turned  appealingly  to  Mrs.  Somers.  "  I'll  be 
willing  to  go  wherever  it   would  be   best   for  my  bov,  sir. 

But "  and  here  she  checked  herself,  and  a  tear  trickled 

silentlv  down  her  cheeks. 

Will  resumed,  in  a  more  cheerful  tone,  "  I  am  get- 
ting a  little  known  novv^,  and  work  will  come  if  one  waits 
for  it." 

Kenelm  did  not  deem  it  courteous  or  discreet  to  intrude 
further  on  Will's  confidence  in  the  first  interview  ;  and  he 
began  to  feel,  more  than  he  had  done  at  first,  not  onlv  the 
dull  pain  of  the  bruises  he  had  received  in  the  recent  combat, 
but  also  somewhat  more  than  the  weariness  which  follows 
a  long  summer-day's  work  in  the  open  air.  He  therefore, 
rather  abruptly,  now  took  his  leave,  saying  that  he  should 
be  very  glad  of  a  few  specimens  of  Will's  ingenuity  and  skill, 
and  would  call  or  write  to  give  directions  about  them. 

Just  as  he  came  in  sight  of  Tom  Bowie's  house  on  his 
way  back  to  Mr.  Saunderson's,  Kenelm  saw  a  man  mount- 
ing a  pony  that  stood  tied  up  at  the  gate,  and  exchanging  a 
few  words  with  a  respectable-looking  woman  before  he  rode 
on.  He  was  passing  by  Kenelm  without  notice,  when  that 
philosopliical  vagrant  stopped  him,  saying,  "If  I  am  not 
mistaken,  sir,  you  are  the  doctor.  There  is  x\kA  nuich  the 
matter  with  Mr.  Bowles  ?  " 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "I  can't  say  yet.  He  has 
had  a  very  ugly  blow  somewhere." 

"  It  was  just  under  the  left  car.  I  did  not  aim  at  that 
exact  spot  ;  but  Bowles  unluckily  swerved  a  little  aside  at 
the  moment,  perhaps  in  surprise  at  a  tap  between  his  eyes 
immediately  preceding  it  ;  and  so,  as  you  say,  it  was  an  ugly 
blow  that  he  received.  But  if  it  cures  him  of  the  habit  of 
giving  ugly  blows  to  other  people  who  can   bear  them  less 


KEN  ELM   CHILLIXGLY.  117 

Sfifely,  perhaps  it  may  be  all  for  his  good,  as,  no  doubt,  sir, 
your  schoolmaster  said  when  he  flogged  you." 

"  Bless  my  soul !  are  you  the  man  who  fought  with  him — 
you  ?     I  can't  believe  it." 

"Why  not?" 

"Why  not  !  So  far  as  I  can  judge  by  this  light,  though 
you  are  a  tall  fellow,  Tom  Bowles  must  be  a  much  heavier 
weight  than  you  are." 

"  Tom  Spring  was  the  champion  of  England  ;  and  accord- 
ing to  the  records  of  his  weight,  w^iich  History  has  pre- 
served in  her  archives,  Tom  Spring  was  a  lighter  weight 
than  I  am." 

"  But  are  you  a  prize-fighter  ?  " 

"  I  am  as  much  that  as  I  am  anything  else.  But  to  re- 
turn to  Mr.  Bowles  :  was  it  necessary  to  bleed  him  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  he  was  unconscious,  or  nearly  so,  when  I  came. 
I  took  away  a  few  ounces,  and  I  am  happy  to  say  he  is  now 
sensible,  but  must  be  kept  very  quiet." 

"  No  doubt  ;  but  I  hope  he  will  be  well  enough  to  see 
me  to-morrow." 

"  I  hope  so  too  ;  but  I  can't  say  yet.  Quarrel  about  a 
girl— eh  ?  " 

"  It  was  not  about  money.  And  I  suppose  if  there  were 
no  money  and  no  women  in  the  world,  there  would  be  no 
quarrels,  and  very  few  doctors.     Good-night,  sir." 

"  It  is  a  strange  thing  to  me,"  said  Kenelm,  as  he  now 
ppened  the  garden-gate  of  Mr.  Saunderson's  homestead, 
"that  though  I've  had  nothing  to  eat  all  day,  except  a  few 
pitiful  sandwiches,  I  don't  feel  the  least  hungry.  Such 
arrest  of  the  lawful  duties  of  the  digestive  organs  never  hap- 
pened to  me  before.  There  must  be  something  weird  and 
ominous  in  it." 

On  entering  the  parlor,  the  family  party,  though  they 
had  long  since  finished  supper,  were  still  seated  round  the 
table.  They  all  rose  at  sight  of  Kenelm.  The  fame  of  his 
achievements  had  preceded  him.  He  checked  the  congra- 
tulations, the  compliments,  and  the  questions  which  the 
hearty  farmer  rapidly  heaped  upon  him,  with  a  melancholic 
exclamation,  "  But  I  have  lost  my  appetite  !  No  honors 
can  compensate  for  that.  Let  me  go  to  bed  peaceably,  and 
perhaps  in  the  magic  land  of  sleep  Nature  may  restore  me 
by  a  dream  of  supper." 


Ii8  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Kenelm  rose  betimes  the  next  morning,  somewhat  stifl 
and  uneasy,  but  sufficiently  recovered  to  feel  ravenous. 
Fortunatclv,  one  of  the  young  ladies  who  attended  specially 
to  the  dairy  was  already  up,  and  supplied  the  starving  hero 
with  a  vast  bowl  of  bread  and  milk.  He  then  strolled  into 
the  hay-field,  in  which  there  was  now  very  little  left  to  do, 
and  but  few  hands  besides  his  own  were  employed.  Jessie 
was  nut  there.  Kenelm  was  glad  of  that.  By  nine  o'clock 
his  work  was  over,  and  the  farmer  and  his  men  were  in  the 
yard  completing  the  ricks.  Kenelm  stole  away  unobserved, 
bent  on  a  round  of  visits.  He  called  first  at  the  village  shop 
kept  by  Mrs.  Bawtrey,  which  Jessie  had  pointed  out  to  him, 
on  pretence  of  buying  a  gaudy  neckerchief,  and  soon,  thanks 
to  his  habitual  civility,  made  familiar  acciuaintance  with  the 
shop-woman.  She  Avasa  little  sickly  old  lady,  her  head  shak- 
ing, as  with  palsy,  somewhat  deaf,  but  still  shrewd  and  sharp, 
rendered  mechanically  so  by  long  habits  of  shrewdness  and 
sharpness.  She  became  very  communicative,  spoke  freely 
of  her  desire  to  give  up  the  shop  and  pass  the  rest  of  her 
days  with  a  sister,  widowed  like  herself,  in  a  neighboring 
town.  Since  she  had  lost  her  husband,  the  field  and  orchard^ 
attached  to  the  shop  had  ceased  to  be  profitable,  and  be- 
come a  great  care  and  trouble;  and  the  attention  the  shop 
required  was  wearisome.  But  she  had  twelve  years  unex- 
pired of  the  lease  granted  for  twenty-one  years  to  her  hus- 
band on  low  terms,  and  she  wanted  a  premium  for  its  trans- 
fer, and  a  purchaser  for  the  stock  of  the  shop.  Kenelm 
soon  drew  from  her  the  amount  of  the  sum  she  required  for 

all— ^45- 

"You  ben't  thinking  of  it  for  yourself  ?"  she  asked,  put- 
ting on  her  spectacles  and  examining  him  with  care. 

"Perhaps  so,  if  one  could  get  a  decent  living  out  of  it. 
Do  you  keep  a  book  of  your  losses  and  gains  ?  " 

"  In  course,  sir,"  she  said,  proudly.  "I  kept  the  books 
in  mygoodman's  time,  and  he  was  one  who  could  find  out 
if  there  was  a  farthing  wrong,  for  he  had  been  in  a  lawyer's 
office  when  a  lad." 

"  Why  did  he  leave  a  lawyer's  office  to  keen  a  little  shon?" 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  119 

"Well  he  was  born  a  farmer's  son  in  this  neighborhood, 
and  he  always  had  a  hankering  after  the  country,  and — and 
besides  that " 

"Ye&" 

"  I'll  tell  you  the  truth  ;  he  had  got  into  a  way  of  drinking 
speerrits,  and  he  was  a  good  young  man,  and  wanted  to  break 
himself  of  it,  and  he  took  the  temperance  oath  ;  but  it  was 
too  hard  on  him,  for  he  could  not  break  himself  of  the  com- 
pany that  led  him  into  liquor.  And  so,  one  time  wlien  he 
came  into  the  neighborhood  to  see  his  parents  for  the  Christ- 
mas holiday,  he  took  a  bit  of  liking  to  me;  and  my  father, 
who  was  Squire  Travers's  bailiff,  had  just  died,  and  left  me  a 
little  money.  And  so,  somehow  or  other,  we  came  together, 
and  got  this  house  and  the  land  from  the  Squire  on  lease 
very  reasonable  ;  and  my  goodman,  being  Avell  eddycated, 
and  much  thought  of,  and  never  being  tempted  to  drink, 
now  that  he  had  a  missus  to  keep  him  in  order,  had  a  many 
little  things  put  into  his  way.  He  could  help  to  measure 
timber,  and  knew  about  draining,  and  he  got  some  book- 
keeping from  tlie  farmers  about ;  and  we  kept  cows  and  pigs 
and  poultry,  and  so  we  did  very  well,  specially  as  the  Lord 
was  merciful,  and  sent  us  no  children." 

"And  what  does  the  shop  bring  in  a  year  since  your  hus- 
band died  ?" 

"You  had  best  judge  for  yourself.  Will  you  look  at  the 
book,  and  take  a  peep  at  the  land  and  apple-trees?  But 
they's  been  neglected  since  my  goodman  died." 

In  another  minute  the  heir  of  the  Chillinglvs  was  seated 
in  a  neat  little  back  parlor,  with  a  prett}',  though  confined, 
view  of  the  orchard  and  grass  slope  behind  it,  and  bending 
over  Mrs.  Bawtrey's  ledger. 

Some  customers  for  cheese  and  bacon  coming  now  into 
the  shop,  the  old  woman  left  him  to  his  studies.  Thougii 
they  were  not  of  a  nature  familiar  to  him,  he  brought  to 
them,  at  least,  that  general  clearness  of  head  and  quick  seiz- 
ure of  important  points  which  are  common  to  most  men  who 
have  gone  through  some  disciplined  training  of  intellect 
and  been  accustomed  to  extract  the  pith  and  marrow  out  of 
many  books  on  many  subjects.  The  result  of  his  examina- 
tion was  satisfactory  ;  there  appeared  to  him  a  clear  balance 
of  gain  from  the  shop  alone  of  somewhat  over  ;^40  a  year, 
taking  the  average  of  the  last  three  years.  Closing  the  book, 
he  then  let  himself  out  of  the  window  into  the  orchard,  and 
thence  into  the  neighboring  grass  field.     Both  were,  indeed, 


I20  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

much  neglected  ;  the  trees  wanted  pruning,  the  field  man- 
ure. But  the  soil  was  evidently  of  rich  loam,  and  the  fruit- 
trees  were  abundant  and  of  ripe  age,  generally  looking 
healthy  in  spite  of  neglect.  With  the  quick  intuition  of  a 
man  born  and  bred  in  the  country  and  picking  up  scraps 
of  rural  knowledge  unconsciously,  Kenelm  convinced  him- 
self that  the  land,  properly  managed,  would  far  more  than 
cover  the  rent,  rates,  tithes,  and  all  incidental  outgoings,  leav- 
ing the  profits  of  the  shop  as  the  clear  income  of  the  occu- 
piers. And  no  doubt,  Avitli  clever  young  people  to  manage 
the  shop,  its  profits  might  be  increased. 

Not  thinking  it  necessary  to  return  at  present  to  Mrs. 
Bawtrey's,  Kenelm  now  bent  his  way  to  Tom  Bowles's. 

The  house-door  was  closed.  At  the  summons  of  his 
knock  it  was  quickly  opened  by  a  tall,  stout,  remarkably 
fine-looking  woman,  who  might  have  told  fifty  vears  and  car- 
ried them  off  lightly  on  her  ample  shoulders.  She  was 
dressed  very  respectably  in  black,  her  brown  hair  braided 
simply  under  a  neat  tight-fitting  cap.  Her  features  were 
aquiline  and  very  regular — altogether,  tliere  was  something 
about  her  majestic  and  Cornelia-like.  Slie  might  have  sat 
for  the  model  of  that  Roman  matron,  except  for  the  fairness 
of  her  Anglo-Saxon  complexion. 

"What's  your  pleasure  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  cold  and  some- 
what stern  voice. 

'*  Ma'am,"  answered  Kenelm,  uncovering,  "  I  have  called 
to  see  Mr.  Bow^les,  and  I  sincerely  hope  he  is  well  enough  to 
let  me  do  so." 

"  No,  sir,  he  is  not  well  enough  for  that  ;  he  is  lying  down 
in  his  own  room,  and  must  be  kept  quiet." 

"  May  I  then  ask  you  the  favor  to  let  me  in  ?  I  would 
say  a  few  words  to  you,  who  are  his  mother,  if  I  mistake 
not." 

Mrs.  Bowles  paused  a  moment,  as  if  in  doubt  ;  but  she 
was  at  no  loss  to  detect  in  Kenelm's  manner  something  su- 
perior to  the  fashion  of  his  dress,  and,  supposing  the  visit 
might  refer  to  her  son's  professional  business,  she  opened 
the  door  wider,  drew  aside  to  let  him  pass  first,  and  when  he 
stood  midway  in  the  parlor,  requested  him  to  take  a  seat, 
and,  to  set  him  the  example,  seated  herself. 

"  Ma'am  ,"  said  Kenelm,  "  do  not  regret  to  have  admitted 
me,  and  do  not  think  hardly  of  me,  when  I  inform  you  that 
I  am  the  unfortunate  cause  of  your  son's  accident." 

Mrs.  Bowles  rose  with  a  start. 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  121 

"You're  the  iiian  who  beat  my  boy  ?" 

"No,  ma'am,  do  not  say  I  beat  him.  He  is  not  beaten. 
He  is  so  brave  and  so  strong  that  he  would  easily  have  beat- 
en me  if  I  had  not,  by  good  luck,  knocked  him  down  before 
he  had  time  to  do  so.  Pray,  ma'am,  retain  your  seat,  and 
listen  to  me  patiently  for  a  few  moments." 

Mrs.  Bowles,  with  an  indignant  heave  of  her  Juno-like 
bosom,  and  with  a  superbly  haughty  expression  of  counte- 
nance, which  suited  well  with  its  aquiline  formation,  tacitly 
obe)'ed. 

"  You  will  allow,  ma'am,"  recommenced  Kenelm,  "  that 
this  is  not  the  first  time  by  many  that  Mr.  Bowles  has  come 
to  blows  with  another  man.  Am  I  not  right  in  that  assump- 
tion?" 

"My  son  is  of  a  hasty  temper,"  replied  Mrs.  Bowles,  re- 
luctantly, "  and  people  should  not  aggravate  liim." 

"  You  grant  the  fact,  then  ?  "  said  Kenelm,  imperturbably, 
but  with  a  polite  inclination  of  head.  "  Mr.  Bowles  has 
often  been  engaged  in  these  encounters,  and  in  all  of  them 
it  is  quite  clear  that  he  provoked  the  battle  ;  for  you  must 
be  aware  that  he  is  not  the  sort  of  man  to  whom  any  other 
would  be  disposed  to  give  the  first  blow.  Yet,  after  these 
little  incidents  had  occurred,  and  Mr.  Bowles  had,  say,  half 
killed  the  person  who  aggravated  him,  you  did  not  feel 
anv  resentment  against  that  person,  did  you  ?  Nay,  if 
he'  had  wanted  nursing,  you  would  have  gone  and  nursed 
him." 

"  I  don't  know  as  to  nursing,"  said  Mrs.  Bowles,  begin- 
ning to  lose  her  dignity  of  mien  ;  "  but  certainly  I  should 
have  been  very  sorry  for  him.  And  as  for  Tom — though  I 
sav  it  who  should  not  say  it — he  has  no  more  malice  than  a 
baby — he'd  go  and  make  it  up  with  any  man,  however  badly 
he  had  beaten  him." 

"Just  as  I  supposed  ;  and  if  the  man  had  sulked  and 
would  not  make  it  up,  Tom  would  have  called  him  a  bad 
fellow,  and  felt  inclined  to  beat  him  again." 

Mrs.  Bowles's  face  relaxed  into  a  stately  smile. 

•'  Well,  then,"  pursued  Kenelm,  "  I  do  but  humbly  imitate 
Mr.  Bowles,  and  I  come  to  make  it  up  and  shake  hands  with 
him." 

"  No,  sir— no,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bowles,  though  in  a  low 
voice,  and  turning  pale.  "  Don't  think  of  it.  'Tis  not  the 
blows — he'll  get  over  those  fast  enough  ;  'tis  his  pride  that's 
hurt  ;  and  if  he  saw  you  there  might  be  mischief.    But  you're 


122  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

a  stranger,  and  going  away  ; — do  go  soon — do  keep  out  of 
his  way — do  !  "     And  the  mother  clasped  her  iiands. 

"  Mrs.  Bowles,"  said  Kenelm,  with  a  change  of  voice  and 
aspect — a  voice  and  aspect  so  earnest  and  impressive  that 
they  stilled  and  awed  her — "will  you  not  help  me  to  save 
your  son  from  the  dangers  into  which  that  hasty  temper  and 
that  mischievous  pride  may  at  any  moment  hurry  him  ?  Does 
it  never  occur  to  you  that  tiicse  are  the  causes  of  terrible 
crime,  bringing  terrible  punishment  ;  and  that  against  brute 
force,  impelled  by  savage  passions,  society  protects  itself  by 
the  hulks  and  the  gallows  ?  " 


"  Sir,  how  dare  you " 

"  Hush  !  If  one  man  kill  another  in  a  moment  of  ungov- 
ernable wrath,  that  is  a  crime  which,  though  heavily  pun- 
ished by  the  conscience,  is  gently  dealt  with  by  the  law, 
which  calls  it  only  manslaughter  ;  but  if  a  motive  to  the 
violence — such  as  jealousy  or  revenge — can  be  assigned,  and 
there  should  be  no  witness  by  to  prove  that  the  violence  was 
not  premeditated,  then  the  law  does  not  call  it  manslaughter, 
but  murder.  Was  it  not  that  thought  which  made  you  so 
imploringly  exclaim,  '  Go  soon  ;  keep  out  of  his  way  '  .''  " 

The  woman  made  no  answer,  but,  sinking  back  in  her 
chair,  gasped  for  breath. 

"  Nay,  madam,"  resumed  Kenelm,  mildly;  "banish  your 
fears.  If  you  will  help  me  I  feel  sure  that  I  can  save  your 
son  from  such  perils,  and  I  only  ask  you  to  let  me  save  him. 
I  am  convinced  that  he  has  a  good  and  noble  nature,  and  he 
is  worth  saving."  As  he  thus  said  he  took  her  hand.  She 
resigned  it  to  him  and  returned  the  pressure,  all  her  pride 
softening  as  she  began  to  w^eep. 

At  length,  when  she  recovered  voice,  she  said  : 

"  It  is  all  along  of  that  girl.  He  was  not  so  till  she 
crossed  him,  and  made  him  half  mad.  He  is  not  the  same 
man  since  then— my  poor  Tom  !  " 

"  Do  you  know  that  he  has  given  me  his  word,  and  before 
his  fellow-villagers,  that  if  he  had  the  worst  of  the  fight  he 
would  never  molest  Jessie  Wiles  again  ?" 

"Yes,  he  told  me  so  himself  ;  and  it  is  that  which  weighs 
on  him  now.  He  broods,  and  broods,  and  mutters,  and  will 
not  be  comforted  ;  and — and  I  do  fear  that  he  means  re- 
venge.    And,  again,  I  implore  3'ou  keep  out  of  his  way." 

''  It  is  not  revenge  on  me  that  he  thinks  of.  Suppose  I 
go  and  am  seen  no  more,  do  you  think  in  your  own  heart 
that  that  girl's  life  is  safe  ?" 


KEXELM   CHILLIXGLY.  123 

"What  !.   My  Tom  kill  a  woman  ! " 

"  Do  you  never  read  in  your  newspaper  of  a  man  who 
kills  his  sweetheart,  or  the  girl  who  refuses  to  be  his  sweet- 
heart ?  At  all  events,  you  yourself  do  not  approve  this 
frantic  suit  of  his.  If  I  have  heard  rightly,  you  have  wished 
to  get  Tom  out  of  the  village  for  some  time,  till  Jessie  Wiles 
is — we'll  say,  married,  or  gone  elsewhere  for  good." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  have  wished  and  prayed  for  it  many's  the 
time,  both  for  her  sake  and  for  his.  And  I  am  sure  I  don't 
know  what  we  shall  do  if  he  stays,  for  he  has  been  losing 
custom  fast.  The  Squire  has  taken  away  his,  and  so  have 
many  of  the  farmers  ;  and  such  a  trade  as  it  was  in  his  good 
fatlier's  time  !  And  if  he  would  go,  his  uncle,  the  Veterinary 
at  Luscombe,  would  take  him  into  partnership  ;  for  he  has 
no  son  of  his  own,  and  he  knows  how  clever  Tom  is  ; — there 
ben't  a  man  who  knows  more  about  horses  ;  and  cows  too, 
for  the  matter  of  that." 

"  And  if  Luscombe  is  a  large  place,  the  business  there 
must  be  more  profitable  than  it  can  be  here,  even  if  Tom 
got  back  his  custom  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  five  times  as  good — if  he  would  but  go  ;  but 
he'll  not  hear  of  it." 

"  Mrs.  Bowles,  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  your 
confidence,  and  I  feel  sure  that  all  will  end  happily,  Vlo\<i  we 
have  had  this  talk.  I'll  not  press  farther  on  you  at  present. 
Tom  will  not  stir  out,  I  suppose,  till  the  evening." 

"Ah,  sir,  he  seems  as  if  h?  had  no  heart  to  stir  out  again, 
unless  for  something  dreadful." 

"  Courage  !  I  will  call  again  in  the  evening,  and  then 
you  just  take  me  up  to  Tom's  room,  and  leave  me  there  to 
make  friends  with  him  as  I  have  with  you.  Don't  say  a 
word  about  me  in  the  meanwhile." 

"But " 

"  '  But,'  Mrs.  Bowles,  is  a  word  that  cools  many  a  warm 
impulse,  stifles  many  a  kindly  thought,  puts  a  dead  stop  to 
many  a  brotherly  deed.  Nobody  would  ever  love  his  neigh- 
bor as  himself  if  he  listened  to  all  the  Buts  that  could  be 
said  on  the  other  side  of  the  question." 


124  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Kenelm  now  bent  his  way  towards  the  parsonage,  but 
just  as  he  neared  its  glebe-lands  he  met  a  gentleman  whose 
dress  was  so  evidently  clerical  that  he  stopped  and  said  : 

"Have  I  the  honor  to  address  Mr.  Lethbridge  ?" 

"  That  is  my  name,"  said  the  clergyman,  smiling  pleas- 
antly.     "  Anything  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  great  deal,  if  you  will  let  me  talk  to  you  about 
a  few  of  your  parishioners." 

"  My  parishioners  !  1  beg  your  pardon,  but  you  are  quite 
a  stranger  to  me,  and,  I  should  think,  to  the  parish." 

"  To  the  parish — no,  I  am  quite  at  home  in  it  ;  and  I  hon- 
estly believe  that  it  has  never  known  a  more  officious  busy- 
body thrusting  himself  into  its  most  private  affairs." 

Mr.  Lethbridge  stared,  and,  after  a  short  pause,  said, 
"  I  have  heard  of  a  voung  man  who  has  been  staying  at  Mr. 
Saunderson's,  and  is  indeed  at  this  moment  the  talk  of  the 
village.     You  are " 

"That  yoimg  man.     Alas  !  yes." 

"Nay,"  said  Mr.  Lethbridge,  kindly,  "I  cannot  myself, 
as  a  minister  of  the  gospel,  approve  of  your  profession, 
and,  if  I  might  take  the  liberty,  I  would  try  and  dissuade 
you  from  it  ;  but  still,  as  for  the  one  act  of  freeing  a  poor 
girl  from  the  most  scandalous  persecution,  and  administer- 
ing, though  in  a  rough  way,  a  lesson  to  a  savage  brute  who 
has  long  been  the  disgrace  and  terror  of  the  neighborhood, 
I  cannot  honestly  say  that  it  has  my  condemnation.  The 
moral  sense  of  a  community  is  generally  a  right  one — you 
have  won  the  praise  of  the  village.  Under  all  the  circum- 
stances, I  do  not  withhold  mine.  You  woke  this  morning 
and  found  yourself  famous.     Do  not  sigh  '  Alas.'  " 

"  Lord  Byron  woke  one  morning  and  found  himself 
famous,  and  the  result  was  that  he  signed  '  Alas '  for  the 
rest  of  his  life.  If  there  be  two  things  which  a  wise  man 
sliould  avoid,  they  are  fame  and  love.  Heaven  defend  me 
from  both  ! " 

Again  the  parson  stared  ;  but  being  of  compassionate 
nature,  and  inclined  to  take  mild  views  of  everything  that 
belongs  to  humanity,  he  said,  with  a  slight  inclination  of 
his  head  ■ 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  125 

*'  I  have  always  heard  that  the  Americans  in  general 
enjoy  the  advantage  of  a  better  education  than  we  do  in 
England,  and  their  reading  public  is  infinitely  larger  than 
ours  ;  still,  when  I  hear  one  of  a  calling  not  highly  con- 
sidered in  this  country  for  intellectual  cultivation  or  ethical 
philosophy  cite  Lord  Byron,  and  utter  a  sentiment  at  vari- 
ance with  the  impetuosity  of  inexperienced  youth,  but 
which  has  much  to  commend  it  in  the  eyes  of  a  reflective 
Christian  impressed  with  the  nothingness  of  the  objects 
mostly  coveted  by  the  human  heart,  I  am  surprised,  and 
— Oh,  my  dear  young  friend,  surely  your  education  might 
fit  you  for  something  better  !  " 

It  was  among  the  maxims  of  Kenelm  Chillingly's  creed 
that  a  sensible  man  should  never  allow  himself  to  be  sur- 
prised ;  but  here  he  was,  to  use  a  popular  idiom,  "  taken 
aback,"  and  lowered  himself  to  the  rank  of  ordinary  minds 
by  saying  simply,  "  I  don't  understand." 

"  I  see,"  resumed  the  clergyman,  shaking  his  head 
gently,  "  as  I  always  suspected,  that  in  the  vaunted  educa- 
tion bestowed  on  Americans  the  elementary  principles  of 
Christian  right  and  wrong  are  more  neglected  than  they 
are  among  our  own  humble  classes.  Yes,  my  young  friend, 
you  may  quote  poets,  you "  may  startle  me  by  remarks  on 
the  nothingness  of  human  fame  and  human  love,  derived 
from  tlie  precepts  of  heathen  poets,  and  yet  not  understand 
witli  what  compassion,  and,  in  the  judgment  of  most  sober- 
minded  persons,  with  what  contempt,  a  human  being  who 
practises  your  vocation  is  regarded." 

"  Have  I  a  vocation  ?  "  said  Kenelm.  "  I  am  very  glad 
to  hear  it.  What  is  my  vocation  ?  and  why  must  I  be  an 
American  ?" 

"  Why — surely  I  am  not  misinformed.  You  are  the 
American — I  forget  his  name — who  has  come  over  to  con- 
test the  belt  of  prize-fighting  with  the  champion  of  Eng- 
land. You  are  silent  ;  you  hang  your  head.  By  your 
appearance,  your  length  of  limb,  your  gravity  of  counte- 
nance, your  evident  education,  you  confirm  the  impression 
of  your  birth.     Your  prowess  has  proved  your  profession." 

'"  Reverend  Sir,"  said  Kenelm,  with  his  unutterable 
seriousness  of  aspect,  "  I  am  on  my  travels  in  search  of 
truth  and  in  flight  from  shams,  but  so  great  a  take-in  as 
myself  I  have  not  yet  encountered.  Remember  me  in  your 
prayers.  I  am  not  an  American  ;  I  am  not  a  prize-fightei 
I  honor  the   first  as  the   citizen  of  a  grand  republic  trying 


126  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

his  best  to  accomplish  an  experiment  in  government  in 
which  he  will  find  the  very  prosperity  he  tends  to  create 
will  sooner  or  later  destroy  his  experiment.  I  honor  the 
last  because  strength,  courage,  and  sobriety  are  essential  to 
the  prize-fighter  and  are  among  the  chiefest  ornaments  of 
kings  and  heroes.  But  I  am  neither  one  nor  the  other. 
And  all  1  can  say  for  myself  is,  that  I  belong  to  that  very 
vague  class  commonly  called  English  gentlemen,  and  that, 
by  birth  and  education,  I  liave  a  right  to  ask  you  to  shake 
hands  wiih  me  as  such." 

Mr.  Lechbridge  stared  again,  raised  his  hat,  bowed,  and 
shook  hands. 

"  You  will  allow  me  now  to  speak  to  you  about  your 
parishioners.  You  take  an  interest  in  \Vill  Somers — so  do  I. 
He  is  clever  and  ingenious.  But  it  seems  there  is  not 
sufficient  demand  here  for  his  baskets,  and  he  would,  no 
doubt,  do  better  in  some  neighboring  town.  Why  does  he 
object  to  move  ?" 

"  I  fear  that  poor  Will  would  pine  away  to  death  if  he 
lost  sight  of  that  pretty  girl  for  whom  you  did  such 
chivalrous  battle  with  Tom  Bowles." 

"  The  unhappy  man,  then,  i$  really  in  love  with  Jessie 
Wiles  ?  And  do  you  think  she  no  less  really  cares  for 
him  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  And  would  make  him^  good  wife — that  is,  as  wives  go?" 

"  A  gcjod  daughter  generally  makes  a  good  wife.  And 
there  is  not  a  father  in  the  place  who  has  a  better  child  than 
Jessie  is  to  hers.  She  really  is  a  girl  of  a  superior  nature. 
She  was  the  cleverest  pupil  at  our  school,  and  my  wife  is 
much  attached  to  her.  But  slie  has  something  better  than 
mere  cleverness  ;  she  has  an  excellent  heart." 

''What  you  say  confirms  my  own  impressions.  And 
the  girl's  father  has  no  other  objection  to  Will  Somers  than 
his  fear  that  Will  could  not  support  a  wife  and  family 
comfortably  ?  " 

"  He  can  have  no  other  objection  save  that  which  would 
apply  equallv  to  all  suitors.  I  mean  his  fear  lest  Tom 
Bowies  might  do  her  some  mischief  if  he  knew  she  was 
about  to  marry  any  one  else." 

"You  think,  then,  tliat  Mr.  Bowles  is  a  thoroughly  bad 
and  dangerous  person  ?  " 

"  Thoroughly  bad  and  dangerous,  and  worse  since  he 
has  taken  to  drinkinsr." 


KEh'ELM   CHILLINGLY.  127 

"  I  suppose  lie  did  not  take  to  drinking  till  he  lost  his 
wits  for  Jessie  Wiles  ?  " 

"No,  I  don't  think  he  did." 

"  But,  Mr.  Lethbridge,  have  you  never  used  your  in- 
fluence over  this  dangerous  man  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  did  try,  but  I  only  got  insulted.  He  is  a 
godless  animal,  and  has  not  been  inside  a  church  for  years. 
He  seems  to  have  got  a  smattering  of  such  vile  learning  as 
may  be  found  in  infidel  publications,  and  I  doubt  if  he 
has  any  religion  at  all." 

"  Poor  Polyphemus  !  no  wonder  his  Galatea  shuns  him  ! " 

''Old  Wiles  is  terribly  frightened,  and  asked  my  wife  to 
find  Jessie  a  place  as  servant  at  a  distance.  But  Jessie  can't 
bear  the  thoughts  of  leaving." 

"  For  the  same  reason  which  attaches  Will  Somers  to  the 
native  soil  ? " 

"  My  wife  thinks  so." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  if  Tom  Bowles  were  out  of  the 
way,  and  Jessie  and  Will  were  man  and  wife,  they  could  earn 
a  sufficient  liveliliood  as  successors  to  Mrs.  Bawtrey.  Will 
adding  the  profits  of  his  basket-work  to  those  of  the  shop 
and  land  ?  " 

"A  sufficient  livelihood!  of  course.  They  Avould  be 
quite  rich.  I  know  the  shop  used  to  turn  a  great  deal  of 
money.  The  old  woman,  to  be  sure,  is  no  longer  up  to  busi- 
ness, but  still  she  retains  a  good  custom." 

"  Will  Somers  seems  in  delicate  health.  Perhaps  if  he 
had  less  weary  struggle  for  a  livelihood,  and  no  fear  of  losing 
Jessie,  his  health  would  improve." 

"  His  life  would  be  saved,  sir." 

"  Then,"  said  Kenelm,  with  a  heavy  sigh  and  a  face  as 
long  as  an  undertaker's,  "though  I  myself  entertain  a  pro- 
found compassion  for  that  disturbance  to  our  mental  equi- 
librium which  goes  by  the  name  of  '  love,'  and  I  am  the  last 
person  who  ought  to  add  to  the  cares  and  sorrows  which 
marriage  entails  upon  its  victims — I  say  nothing  of  the  woes 
destined  to  those  whom  marriage  usually  adds  to  a  popula- 
tion already  overcrowded — I  fear  that  I  must  be  the  means 
of  bringing  these  two  love-birds  into  the  same  cage.  I  am 
ready  to  purchase  the  shop  and  its  appurtenances  on  their 
behalf,  on  the  condition  that  you  will  kindly  obtain  the  con- 
sent of  Jessie's  father  to  their  union.  As  for  my  brave  friend 
Tom  Bowles,  I  undertake  to  deliver  them  and  the  village 
from  that  exuberant  nature,  which  requires  a  larger  field  for 


128  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

its  energies.  Pardon  me  for  not  letting  you  interrupt  me. 
I  have  not  yet  finished  what  I  liave  to  say.  Allow  me  to 
ask  if  Mrs.  Gnindy  resides  in  this  village." 

"  Mrs.  Grundy  !  Oh,  I  understand.  Of  course  ;  wher- 
ever a  woman  has  a  tongue,  there  Mrs.  Grundy  has  a  home." 

"  And  seeing  that  Jessie  is  very  pretty,  and  tliat  in  walk- 
ing with  her  I  encountered  Mr.  Bowles,  might  not  Mrs. 
Grundy  say,  with  a  toss  of  her  head,  '  that  it  was  not  out  of 
pure  charity  that  the  stranger  had  been  so  liberal  to  Jessie 
Wiles  '  ?  But  if  the  money  for  tlie  shop  be  paid  through 
you  to  Mrs.  Bawtrey,  and  you  kindly  undertake  all  the  con- 
tingent arrangements,  Mrs.  Grundy  will  have  nothing  to 
say  against  any  one." 

Mr.  Lethbridge  gazed  with  amaze  at  the  solemn  counte- 
nance before  him. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  after  a  long  pause,  "  I  scarcely  know  how 
to  express  my  admiration  of  a  generosity  so  noble,  so 
thoughtful,  and  accompanied  with  a  delicacy,  and,  indeed, 
with  a  wisdom,  whicii — which " 

"  Pray,  my  dear  sir,  do  not  make  me  still  more  ashamed 
of  myself  than  I  am  at  present,  for  an  interference  in  love- 
matters  quite  alien  to  my  own  convictions  as  to  the  best 
mode  of  making  an  'Approach  to  the  Angels.'  To  con- 
clude this  business,  I  think  it  better  to  deposit  in  your  hands 
the  sum  of  ;^45,  for  which  Mrs.  Bawtrey  has  agreed  to  sell 
the  remainder  of  her  lease  and  stock-in-hand  ;  but  of  course 
you  will  not  make  anvthing  public  till  I  am  gone,  and  Tom 
Bowles  tc:)o.  I  hope  1  may  get  him  away  to-morrow  ;  but  I 
shall  know  to-night  when  I  can  depend  upon  his  departure 
— and  till  he  goes  I  must  stay." 

As  he  spoke,  Kenelm  transferred  from  his  pocket-boc)k  to 
Mr.  Lethbridge's  hand  bank-notes  to  the  amount  specified. 

"May  I  at  least  ask  the  name  of  the  gentleman  who 
honors  me  with  his  cc^nfidence,  and  has  bestowed  so  mucli 
happiness  on  members  of  my  flock  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  great  reason  why  I  should  not  tell  you  my 
name,  but  I  see  no  reason  why  I  should.  You  remember 
Talleyrand's  advice  — '  If  you  are  in  doubt  whether  to  write 
a  letter  or  not— don't.'  The  advice  applies  to  many  doubts 
ia  life  besides  that  of  letter  writing.     Farewell,  sir  !  " 

"A  most  extraordinary  young  man,"  muttered  the  par- 
son, gazing  at  the  receding  form  of  the  tall  stranger  ;  then 
gently  shaking  his  head,  he  added,  "Quite  an  original."  He 
was  contented  with  that  solution  of  the  difficulties  which 
had  puzzled  him.     May  the  reader  be  the  same. 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  129 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

After  the  family  dinner,  at  which  the  farmer's  guest 
displayed  more  than  his  usual  powers  of  appetite.  Kenelm 
followed  his  host  towards  the  stackyard,  and  said  : 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Saunderson,  though  you  have  no  longer 
any  work  for  me  to  do,  and  I  ought  not  to  trespass  further 
on  your  hospitality,  yet  if  I  might  stay  with  you  another 
day  or  so  I  should  be  very  grateful." 

"My  dear  lad,"  cried  the  farmer,  in  whose  estimation 
Kenelm  had  risen  prodigiously  since  the  victory  over  Tom 
Bowles,  "you  are  welcome  to  stay  as  long  as  you  like,  and 
we  shall  be  all  sorry  when  you  go.  Indeed,  at  all  events, 
you  must  stay  over  Saturday,  for  you  shall  go  with  us  to  the 
Squire's  harvest-supper.  It  will  be  a  pretty  sight,  and  my 
girls  are  already  counting  on  you  for  a  dance." 

"  Saturday—  the  day  after  to-morrow.  You  are  very 
kind  ;  but  merry-makings  are  not  much  in  my  way,  and  I 
think  I  shall  Idc  on  my  road  before  you  set  off  to  the 
Squire's  suj^per." 

"  Pooh  !  you  shall  stay  ;  and,  I  say,  young  un,  if  you 
want  more  to  do,  I  have  a  job  for  you  quite  in  your  line." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Thrash  my  ploughman.  He  has  been  insolent  this 
morning,  and  he  is  the  biggest  fellow  in  the  county,  next  to 
Tom  Bowles." 

Here  the  farmer  laughed  heartily,  enjoying  his  own  joke. 

"Thank  you  for  nothing,"  said  Kenelm,  rubbing  his 
bruises.     "A  burnt  child  dreads  the  fire." 

The  young  man  wandered  alone  into  the  fields.  The 
day  was  becoming  overcast,  and  the  clouds  threatened  rain. 
The  air  was  exceedingly  still  ;  the  landscape,  missing  the 
sunshine,  wore  an  aspect  of  gloomy  solitude.  Kenelm  came 
to  the  banks  of  the  rivulet  not  far  from  the  spot  on  which 
the  farmer  had  first  found  him.  There  he  sat  down,  and 
leant  his  cheek  on  his  hand,  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  still  and 
darkened  stream  lapsing  mournfully  away ;  sorrow  entered 
into  his  heart  and  tinged  its  musings. 

"  Is  it  then  true,"  said  he,  soliloquizing,  "that  I  am  born 
to  pass  through  life   utterly  alone  ;  asking,  indeed,  for  no 


I30  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

sister-half  of  myself,  disbelieving  its  possibility,  shrinking 
Iron^  the  thoiiglit  of  it — half  scorning,  half  pitying-  those 
who  sigh  for  it  ? — thing  unattainable — better  sigh  for  the 
moon  ! 

"  Yet,  if  other  men  sigh  for  it,  why  do  I  stand  apart  from 
them  ?  If  the  world  be  a  stage,  and  all  the  men  and  women 
in  it  merely  players,  am  I  to  be  the  solitary  spectator,  with 
no  part  in  the  drama  and  no  interest  in  the  vicissitudes  of 
its  plot  ?  Many  there  are,  no  doubt,  who  covet  as  little  as 
I  do  the  part  of  'Lover,'  'with  a  woeful  ballad  made  to  his 
mistress'  eyebrow; '  but  then  they  covet  some  other  part  in 
the  drama,  such  as  that  of  Soldier  'bearded  as  a  pard,' or 
that  of  Justice  '  in  fair  round  belly  with  fat  capon  lined.' 
But  me  no  ambition  fires — I  have  no  longing  either  to  rise 
or  to  shine.  I  don't  desire  to  be  a  colonel,  nor  an  admiral, 
nor  a  member  of  Parliament,  nor  an  alderman  ;  I  do  not 
yearn  for  the  fame  of  a  wit,  or  a  poet,  or  a  philosopher,  or 
a  diner-out,  or  a  crack  shot  at  a  ritle-match  or  a  battue.  De- 
cidedly I  am  the  one  looker-on,  the  one  bystander,  and  have 
no  more  concern  with  the  active  world  than  a  stone  has.  It 
is  a  horrible  phantasmal  crotchet  of  Goethe's,  that  origi- 
nally we  were  all  monads,  little  segregated  atoms  adrift  in 
the  atmosphere,  and  carried  hither  and  thither  by  forces 
over  which  we  had  no  control,  especially  by  the  attraction 
of  other  monads,  so  that  one  monad,  compelled  by  porcine 
monads,  crystallizes  into  a  pig  ;  another,  hurried  along  by 
heroic  monads,  becomes  a  lion  or  an  Alexander.  Now  it  is 
quite  clear,"  continued  Kenclm,  shifting  his  position  and 
crossing  the  right  leg  over  the  left,  "that  a  monad  intended 
or  fitted  for  some  other  planet  may,  on  its  way  to  that  desti- 
nation, be  encountered  by  a  current  of  other  monads  blow- 
ing earthward,  and  be  caught  up  in  the  stream  and  whirled 
on,  till,  to  the  marring  of  its  whole  proper  purpose  and 
scene  of  action,  it  settles  here — conglomerated  into  a  baby. 
Probably  that  lot  has  befallen  me  :  my  monad,  meant  for 
another  region  in  space,  has  been  dropped  into  this,  where 
it  can  never  be  at  home,  never  amalgamate  with  other 
monads  nor  comprehend  why  they  are  in  such  a  perpetual 
fidget.  I  declare  I  know  no  more  why  the  minds  of  human 
beings  should  be  so  restlessly  agitated  about  things  which, 
as  most  of  them  own,  give  more  pain  than  pleasure,  than  I 
iniderstand  why  that  swarm  of  gnats,  which  has  such  a  very 
short  time  to  live,  does  not  give  itself  a  moment's  repose, 
but  goes  up  and  down,  rising  and  falling   as  if  it  were  on  a 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  131 

seesaw,  and  making  as  much  noise  about  its  insignificant 
alternations  of  ascent  and  descent  as  if  it  were  the  hum  of 
men.  And  yet,  perhaps,  in  another  planet  my  monad  would 
have  frisked,  and  jumped,  and  danced,  and  seesawed  with 
congenial  monads,  as  contentedly  and  as  sillily  as  do  the 
monads  of  men  and  gnats  in  this  alien  Vale  of  Tears." 

Kenelm  had  just  arrived  at  that  conjectural  solution  of 
his  perplexities,  when  a  voice  was  heard  singing,  or  rather 
modulated  to  that  kind  of  chant  between  recitative  and  song 
which  is  so  pleasingly  effective  where  the  intonations  are 
pure  and  musical.  They  were  so  in  this  instance,  and  Ken- 
elm's  ear  caught  every  word  in  the  following  song  : 


CONTENT. 

There  are  times  when  the  troubles  of  life  are  still; 

The  bees  wandered  lost  in  the  depths  of  June, 
And  I  paused  where  the  chime  of  a  silver  rill 

Sang  the  linnet  and  lark  to  their  rest  at  noon. 

Said  my  soul,  "  See  how  calmly  the  wavelets  glide, 
Though  so  narrow  their  way  to   tlieir  ocean- vent: 

And  the  world  that  I  traverse  is  wide,  is  wide. 
And  yet  is  too  narrow  to  hold  content." 

"O  my  soul,  never  say  that  the  world  is  wide — 

The  rill  in  its  banks  is  less  closely  pent ; 
It  is  thou  who  art  shoreless  on  every  side, 

And  thy  width  will  not  let  thee  inclose  content." 

As  the  verse  ceased,  Kenelm  lifted  his  head.  But  tlie 
banks  of  the  brook  were  so  curving  and  so  clothed  with 
brushwood  that  for  some  minutes  the  singer  was  invisible. 
At  last  the  boughs  before  him  were  put  aside,  and  within  a 
few  paces  of  himself  paused  the  man  to  wliom  he  had  com- 
mended the  praises  of  a  beefsteak,  instead  of  those  which 
minstrelsy,  in  its  immemorial  error,  dedicates  to  love. 

"Sir,"  said  Kenelm,  half  rising,  "well  met  once  more! 
Have  you  ever  listened  to  the  cuckoo  ?" 

"Sir,"  answered  the  minstrel,  "have  you  ever  felt  the 
presence  of  the  summer?" 

"  Permit  me  to  shake  hands  Avith  you.  I  admire  the 
question  by  which  you  have  countermet  and  rebuked  my 
own.  If  you  are  not  in  a  hurrv,  will  you  sit  down  and  let 
us  talk?" 

The  minstrel  inclined  his  head  and  seated  himself.     His 


132  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

dog — now  emerged  from  the  brushwood — gravely  ap- 
proached Kenehn,  who  with  greater  gravity  regarded  him  ; 
then,  wagging  liis  tail,  reposed  on  his  haunches,  intent  witli 
ear  erect  on  a  stir  in  the  neighboring  reeds,  evidently  con- 
sidering whether  it  was  caused  by  a  fish  or  a  water-rat. 

"  I  asked  you,  sir,  if  you  had  ever  listened  to  the  cuckoo 
— from  no  irrelevant  curiosity  ; — for  often  on  summer  days, 
when  one  is  talking  with  one's  self,  and,  of  course,  puzzling 
one's  self,  a  voice  breaks  out,  as  it  were,  from  the  heart  of 
Nature,  so  far  is  it  and  yet  so  near  ;  and  it  says  something 
very  quieting,  very  musical,  so  that  one  is  tempted  incon- 
siderately and  foolishly  to  exclaim,  '  Nature  replies  to  me.' 
The  cuckoo  has  served  me  that  trick  pretty  often.  Your 
song  is  a  better  answer  to  a  man's  self-questionings  than  he 
can  ever  get  from  a  cuckoo." 

"  I  doubt  that,"  said  the  minstrel.  "  Song,  at  the  best, 
is  but  the  echo  of  some  voice  from  the  heart  of  Nature. 
And  if  tlie  cuckoo's  note  seemed  to  you  such  a  voice,  it  was 
an  answer  to  your  questionings  perhaps  more  simply  truth- 
ful than  man  can  utter,  if  you  had  rightly  construed  the  lan- 
guage." 

"My  good  friend,"  answered  Kenelm,  "what  you  say 
sounds  very  prettily ;  and  it  contains  a  sentiment  which  has 
been  amplified  by  certain  critics  into  that  measureless  domain 
of  dunderheads  which  is  vulgarly  called  Bosh.  But  tliough 
Nature  is  never  silent,  though  she  abuses  the  privilege  of  her 
age  in  being  tediously  gossiping  andgarrulous— Nature  never 
replies  to  our  questions — she  can't  understand  an  argimicnt 
— she  has  never  read  Mr.  Mill's  work  on  ]^ogic.  In  fact,  as 
it  is  truly  said  by  a  great  philosopher,  '  Nature  has  no  mind.* 
Every  man  who  addresses  her  is  compelled  to  force  upon 
her  for  a  moment  the  loan  of  his  own  mind.  And  if  she 
answers  a  question  which  his  own  mind  puts  to  her,  it  is 
only  by  such  a  reply  as  his  own  mind  teaches  to  her  parrot- 
like lips.  And  as  every  man  has  a  different  mind,  so  every 
man  gets  a  different  answer.     Nature  is  a  lying  old  humbug." 

The  minstrel  laughed  merrily  ;  and  his  laugh  was  as  sweet 
as  his  chant. 

"  Poets  would  have  a  great  deal  to  unlearn  if  they  are  to 
look  upon  Nature  in  that  light." 

"  Bad  poets  would,  and  so  much  the  better  for  them  and 
their  readers." 

"Are  not  good  poets  students  of  Nature  ?" 

"  Students    of     Nature,  certainly — as     surgeons    study 


KENELM    CHILLINGLY.  133 

anatomy  by  dissecting  a  dead  body.  But  the  good  poet,  like 
the  good  surgeon,  is  the  man  who  considers  tliat  study  merely 
as  the  necessary  ABC,  and  not  as  the  all-in-all  essential  to 
skill  in  his  practice.  I  do  not  give  the  fame  of  a  good  sur- 
geon to  a  man  who  fills  a  book  with  details,  more  or  less 
accurate,  of  fibres,  and  nerves,  and  muscles  ;  and  I  don't 
give  the  fame  of  a  good  poet  to  a  man  who  makes  an  in- 
ventory of  the  Rhine  or  the  Vale  of  Gloucester.  The  good 
surgeon  and  the  good  poet  are  they  who  understand  the 
living  man.  What  is  that  poetry  of  drama  which  Aristotle 
justly  ranks  as  the  highest  ?  Is  it  not  a  poetry  in  which 
description  of  inanimate  Nature  must  of  necessity  be  very 
brief  and  general  ;  in  which  even  the  external  form  of  man 
is  so  indifferent  a  consideration  that  it  will  vary  with  each 
actor  who  performs  the  part  ?  A  Hamlet  may  be  fair  or 
dark.  A  Macbeth  may  be  short  or  tall.  The  merit  of 
dramatic  poetry  consists  in  the  substituting  for  what  is  com- 
monly cahed  Nature  (viz.,  external  and  material  Nature) 
creatures  intellectual,  emotional,  but  so  purely  immaterial 
that  they  may  be  said  to  be  all  mind  and  soul,  accepting 
the  temporary  loans  of  any  such  bodies  at  hand  as  actors 
may  offer,  in  order  to  be  made  palpable  and  visible  to  the 
audience,  but  needing  no  such  bodies  to  be  palpable  and 
visible  to  readers.  The  highest  kind  of  poetry  is  therefore 
that  which  has  least  to  do  with  external  Nature.  But  every 
grade  has  its  merit  more  or  less  genuinely  great,  according 
as  it  instills  into  Nature  that  which  is  not  there — .the  reason 
and  the  soul  of  man." 

"  I  am  not  much  disposed,"  said  the  minstrel,  "  to  ac- 
knowledge any  one  form  of  poetry  to  be  practically  higher 
than  another — that  is,  so  far  as  to  elevate  the  poet  who  culti- 
vates what  you  call  the  highest  with  some  success,  above  the 
rank  of  the  poet  who  cultivates  W' hat  you  call  a  very  inferior 
school  with  a  success  much  more  triumphant.  In  theory 
dramatic  poetry  may  be  higher  than  lyric,  and  'Venice  Pre- 
served' is  a  very  successful  drama;  but  I  think  Burns  a 
greater  poet  than  Otway." 

"  Possibly  he  may  be  ;  but  I  know  of  no  lyrical  poet,  at 
least  among  the  moderns,  who  treats  less  of  Nature  as  the 
mere  outward  form  of  things,  or  more  passionately  animates 
her  framework  with  his  own  human  heart,  than  does  Robert 
Burns.  Do  you  suppose  when  a  Greek,  in  some  perplexity 
of  reason  or  conscience,  addressed  a  question  to  the  oracular 
oak -leaves  of   Dodona,  that  the  oak-leaves  answered  him  ? 


134  KENELM    CHILLINGLY. 

Don't  you  rather  believe  that  the  question  suggested  by  his 
mind  was  answered  by  the  mind  of  his  fellow-man  the  priest, 
who  made  the  oak- leaves  the  mere  vehicle  of  communication, 
as  you  and  I  might  make  such  vehicle  in  a  sheet  of  writing- 
paper.  Is  not  the  history  of  superstition  a  chronicle  of  the 
follies  of  man  in  attempting  to  get  answers  from  external 
Nature?" 

"But,"  said  the  minstrel,  "have  I  not  somewhere  heard 
or  read  that  the  experiments  of  Science  are  the  answers  made 
by  Nature  to  the  questions  pvit  to  her  by  man  ?  " 

'*  They  are  the  answers  which  his  own  mind  suggests  to 
her,  nothing  more.  I  lis  mind  studies  the  laws  of  matter,  and 
in  that  study  makes  experiments  on  matter  ;  out  of  those  ex- 
periments his  mind,  according  to  its  previous  knowledge  or 
natural  acuteness,  arrives  at  its  own  deductions,  and  hence 
arise  the  sciences  of  mechanics  and  chemistry,  etc.  But  the 
matter  itself  gives  no  answer  ;  the  answer  varies  according  to 
the  mind  that  puts  the  question,  and  the  progress  of  science 
consists  in  the  perpetual  correction  of  the  errors  and  false- 
hoods which  preceding  minds  conceived  to  be  tlie  correct 
answers  they  received  from  Nature.  It  is  the  supernatural 
within  us— viz..  Mind— which  can  alone  guess  at  the  mechan- 
ism of  the  natural — viz..  Matter.  A  stone  cannot  question  a 
stone." 

The  minstrel  made  no  reply.  And  there  was  a  long 
silence,  broken  but  by  the  hum  of  the  insects,  the  ripple  of 
onward  waves,  and  the  sigli  of  the  wind  through  reeds. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


Said  Kenelm,  at  last  breaking  silence  : 

"  Rapiamns.  amici, 
Occasionem  de  die,  diimquc  virent  genua, 
Et  decet,  obducta  solvatur  fronte  senectus  !  " 

"  Is  not  that  quotation  from  Horace  ?  "  asked  the  minstrel. 

"Yes  ;  and  I  made  it  insidiously,  in  order  to  see  if  you 
had  not  acquired  what  is  called  a  classical  education." 

"  I  might  have  received  such  education,  if  mv  tastes  and 
my  destinies  had  not  withdrawn  me  in  boyhood  from  studies 


KENELM  CHILLlkCLY.  135 

of  which  I  did  not  then  comprehend  the  full  value.  But  I 
did  pick  up  a  smattering  of  Latin  at  school  ;  and  from  time 
to  time  since  I  left  school,  I  liave  endeavored  to  gain  some 
little  knowledge  of  the  most  popular  Latin  poets — chiefly,  I 
own  to  my  shame,  by  the  help  of  literal  English  transla- 
tions." 

"As  a  poet  yourself,  I  am  not  sure  that  it  would  be  an 
advantage  to  know  a  dead  language  so  well  that  its  forms 
and  modes  of  thought  ran,  though  perhaps  unconsciously, 
into  those  of  the  living  one  in  which  you  compose.  Horace 
might  have  been  a  still  better  poet  if  he  had  not  known 
Greek  better  than  you  know  Latin." 

"  It  is  at  least  courteous  in  you  to  say  so,"  answered  the 
singer,  with  a  pleased  smile. 

"You  would  be  still  more  courteous,"  said  Kenelm,  "if 
you  Avould  pardon  an  impertinent  question,  and  tell  me 
whether  it  is  for  a  wager  that  you  wander  through  the  land, 
Homer-like,  as  a  wandering  minstrel,  and  allow  that  intel- 
ligent quadruped,  your  companion,  to  carry  a  tray  in  his 
mouth  for  the  reception  of  pennies  ?  " 

"  No,  it  is  not  for  a  wager  ;  it  is  a  whim  of  mine,  whicli  I 
fancy,  from  the  tone  of  your  conversation,  you  could  under- 
stand— being,  apparently,  somewhat  whimsical  yourself." 

'•  So  far  as  whim  goes,  be  assured  of  my  sympatliy." 

"  Well,  then,  though  I  follow  a  calling  by  the  exercise  of 
which  I  secure  a  modest  income— my  passion  is  verse.  If 
the  seasons  were  always  summer,  and  life  were  always  youth, 
I  should  like  to  pass  through  the  world  singing.  But  I  liave 
never  ventured  to  publish  any  verses  of  mine.  If  they  fell 
still-born,  it  would  give  me  more  pain  than  such  wounds  to 
vanity  ought  to  give  to  a  bearded  man  ;  and  if  they  were 
assailed  or  ridiculed,  it  might  seriously  injure  me  in  my 
practical  vocation.  That  last  consideration,  were  I  quite 
alone  in  the  world,  might  not  much  weigh  on  me  ;  but  there 
are  others  for  whose  sake  I  should  like  to  make  fortune  and 
preserve  station.  Many  years  ago — it  was  in  Germany — I 
fell  in  with  a  German  student  who  was  very  poor,  and  who 
did  make  money  by  wandering  about  the  country  with  lute 
and  song.  He  has  since  become  a  poet  of  no  mean  popular- 
ity, and  he  has  told  me  that  he  is  sure  he  found  the  secret  of 
that  popularity  in  habitually  consulting  popular  tastes  dur- 
ing his  roving  apprenticeship  to  song.  His  example  strongly 
impressed  me.  So  I  began  this  experiment  ;  and  for  several 
years  my  summers  have  been  all  partly  spent   in  this  way. 


136  ken£lm  chillingly. 

I  am  only  known,  n.s  I  think  I  told  yoii  before,  in  the  rounds 
I  take,  as  'The  Wandering  Minstrel.'  I  receive  the  trifling 
moneys  that  are  bestowed  on  me  as  proofs  of  a  certain  merit. 
I  should  not  be  paid  by  poor  people  if  I  did  not  please  ;  and 
the  songs  which  please  them  best  are  generally  those  I  love 
best  myself.  For  the  rest,  my  time  is  not  thrown  away — not 
only  as  regards  bodily  licalth,  but  hcaltiifulness  of  mind — all 
the  current  of  one's  ideas  becomes  so  freshened  by  months  of 
playful  exercise  and  varied  adventure." 

"Yes,  tlie  adventure  is  varied  enough,"  said  Kcnclm, 
somewhat  ruefully;  for  he  felt,  in  sliifting  his  posture,  a 
sharp  twinge  of  his  bruised  muscles.  "  But  don't  you  find 
those  mischief-makers,  the  women,  always  mix  themselves 
up  witli  adventure  ?  " 

"  Bless  them  !  of  course,"  said  the  minstrel,  with  a  ring- 
ing laugh.  "In  life,  as  on  llie  stage,  the  petticoat  interest 
is  always  the  strongest." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you  there,"  said  Kenelm,  dryly. 
"And  you  seem  to  me  to  utter  a  claptrap  beneath  the  rank 
of  your  imderstanding.  However,  this  warm  weather  indis- 
poses one  to  disputation  ;  and  I  own  that  a  petticoat,  pro- 
vided it  be  red,  is  not  without  the  interest  of  color  in  a  pic- 
ture." 

"Well,  young  gentleman,"  said  the  minstrel,  rising,  "the 
day  is  wearing  on,  and  I  must  wish  you  good-bye;  prcjbablv, 
if  you  were  to  ramble  about  tlie  country  as  I  do,  you  would 
see  too  many  pretty  girls  not  to  teach  you  the  strength  of 
petticoat  interest — not  in  pictures  alone;  and  should  I  meet 
you  again,  I  may  find  you  writing  love-verses  yourself." 

"After  a  conjecture  so  unwarrantable,  I  part  company 
with  you  less  reluctantly  than  I  otherwise  might  do.  But  I 
hojje  we  shall  meet  again." 

"  Your  wish  flatters  me  mucli,  but,  if  we  do,  pray  respect 
the  confidence  I  have  placed  in  you,  and  regard  my  wander- 
ing minstrelsy  and  my  dog's  tray  as  sacred  secrets.  Should 
we  not  so  meet,  it  is  but  a  prudent  reserve  on  my  part  if  I 
do  not  give  you  my  right  name  and  address." 

"There  you  show  the  cautious  common-sense  which  be- 
longs rarely  to  lovers  of  verse  and  petticoat  interest.  What 
have  you  done  with  your  guitar  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  pace  the  roads  with  that  instrument  :  it  is  for- 
warded to  me  from  town  to  town  under  a  borrowed  name, 
together  with  other  raiment  than  this,  should  I  have  cause 
to  drop  my  character  of  wandering  minstrel." 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY.  137 

The  two  men  here  exchanged  a  cordial  shake  of  the  hand. 
And  as  the  minstrel  went  his  way  along  the  river-side,  his 
voice  in  chanting  seemed  to  lend  to  the  wavelets  a  livelier 
murmur,  to  the  reeds  a  less  plaintive  sigh. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 


In  his  room,  solitary  and  brooding,  sat  the  defeated  hero 
of  a  hundred  fights.  It  was  now  twilight ;  but  the  shutters 
had  been  partially  closed  all  day,  in  order  to  exclude  the  sun, 
which  had  never  before  been  unwelcome  to  Tom  Bowles, 
and  they  still  remained  so,  making  the  twilight  doubly 
twilight,  till  the  harvest  moon,  rising  early,  shot  its  ray 
through  the  crevice,  and  forced  a  silvery  track  amid  the 
shadows  of  the  floor. 

The  man's  head  drooped  on  his  breast,  his  strong  hands 
rested  listlessly  on  his  knees  ;  his  attitude  was  that  of  utter 
despondency  and  prostration.  But  in  the  expression  of  his 
face  there  were  the  signs  of  some  dangerous  and  restless 
thought  which  belied,  not  the  gloom  but,  the  stillness  of  the 
posture.  His  brow,  which  was  habitually  open  and  frank, 
in  its  defying  aggressive  boldness,  was  now  contracted  into 
deep  furrows,  and  lowered  darkly  over  his  downcast,  half- 
closed  eyes.  His  lips  were  so  tightly  compressed  that  the 
face  lost  its  roundness,  and  the  massive  bone  of  the  jaw 
stood  out  hard  and  salient.  Now  and  then,  indeed,  the  lips 
opened,  giving  vent  to  a  deep,  impatient  sigh,  but  they  re- 
closed  as  quickly  as  they  had  parted.  It  was  one  of  those 
crises  in  life  which  find  all  the  elements  that  make  up  a  man's 
former  self  in  lawless  anarchy  ;  in  which  the  Evil  One  seems 
to  enter  and  di'rect  the  storm  ;  in  which  a  rude  untutored 
mind,  never  before  harboring  a  thought  of  crime,  sees  the 
crime  start  up  from  an  abyss,  feels  it  to  be  an  enemy,  yet 
yields  to  it  as  a  fate.  So  that  when,  at  the  last,  some  wretch, 
sentenced  to  the  gibbet,  shudderingly  looks  back  to  the 
moment  "  that  trembled  between  two  worlds  " — the  world 
of  the  man  guiltless,  the  world  of  the  man  guilty— he  says 
to  the  holy,  highly  educated,  rational,  passionless  priest  who 
confesses  him  and  calls  him  "brother,"  "The  devil  put  it 
into  my  head." 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened  ;  at  its  threshold  there 


138  KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY. 

Stood  the  man's  mother — whom  he  had  never  allowed  to 
inrtuence  his  conduct,  though  he  loved  her  well  in  his  rough 
way — and  the  hated  fellow-man  whom  he  longed  to  see  dead 
at  his  feet.  The  door  reclosed,  the  mother  was  gone,  with- 
out a  word,  for  her  tears  choked  her  ;  the  fellow-man  was 
alone  with  him.  Tom  Bowles  looked  up,  recognized  his 
visitor,  cleared  his  brow,  and  rubbed  his  mighty  hands. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


Kenelm  Chillingly  drew  a  chair  close  to  his  antago- 
nist's, and  silently  laid  a  hand  on  his. 

Tom  Bowles  took  up  the  hand  in  both  his  own,  turned  it 
curiously  towards  the  moonlight,  gazed  at  it,  poised  it,  then 
with  a  sound  between  groan  and  laugh  tossed  it  away  as  a 
thing  hostile  but  trivial,  rose  and  locked  the  door,  came  back 
to  his  seat,  and  said  bluffly  : 

"What  do  you  want  with  me  now?" 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  a  favor." 

"  Favor  ! " 

"  The  greatest  which  man  can  ask  from  man — friendship. 
You  see,  my  dear  Tom,"  continued  Kenelm,  making  himself 
quite  at  home — throwing  his  arm  over  the  back  of  Tom's 
chair,  and  stretching  his  legs  comfortably  as  one  docs  Ijy 
one's  own  fireside  ;  "you  see,  mv  dear  Tom,  that  men  like 
us — young,  single,  not  on  the  whole  bad-looking  as  men  go 
— can  find  sweethearts  in  plenty.  If  one  does  not  like  us, 
another  will  ;  sweethearts  are  sown  everywhere  like  nettles 
and  thistles.  But  the  rarest  thing  in  life  is  a  friend.  Now, 
tell  me  frankly,  in  the  course  of  your  wanderings  did  you 
ever  come  into  a  village  where  you  could  *not  have  got  a 
sweetheart  if  you  had  asked  for  one  ;  and  if,  having  got  a 
sweetheart,  you  had  lost  her,  do  you  think  you  would  have 
liad  any  difficulty  in  finding  another  ?  But  have  you  such  a 
thing  in  tlie  world,  beyond  the  pale  of  your  own  family,  as  a 
true  friend — a  man  friend  .''  and  supposing  that  you  had 
such  a  friend — a  friend  who  would  stand  by  you  through 
thick  and  thin — who  would  tell  you  your  faults  to  your  face, 
and  praise  you  for  your  good  qualities  behind  your  back — 
who  would  do  all  he  could  to  save  you  from  a  danger,  and 
all  he  could  to  get  you  out  of  one, — supposing  you  had  such 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 


139 


a  friend,  and  lost  him,  do  you  believe  that  if  you  lived  to  the 
age  of  Methuselah  you  could  find  another?  You  don't  an- 
swer me  ;  you  are  silent.  Well,  Tom,  I  ask  you  to  be  such 
a  friend  to  me,  and  I  will  be  such  a  friend  to  you." 

Tom  was  so  thoroughly  "  taken  aback  "  by  this  address 
that  he  remained  dumfounded.  But  he  felt  as  if  the  clouds 
in  his  soul  were  breaking,  and  a  ray  of  sunlight  were  forc- 
ing its  way  through  the  sullen  darkness.  At  length,  how- 
ever, the  receding  rage  within  him  returned,  though  with 
vacillating  step,  and  he  growled  between  his  teeth  : 

"  A  pretty  friend  indeed  !  robbing  me  of  my  girl  !  Go 
along  with  you  !  " 

"  She  was  not  your  girl  any  more  than  she  was  or  ever 
can  be  mine." 

"  What,  you  ben't  after  her  ?  " 

"Certainly  not  ;  I  am  going  to  Luscombe,  and  I  ask  you 
to  come  with  me.  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  leave  you 
here?" 

"  What  is  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  Everything.  Providence  has  permitted  me  to  save  you 
from  the  most  lifelong  of  all  sorrows.  For — think  !  Can 
any  sorrow  be  more  lasting  than  had  been  yours  if  you  had 
attained  your  wish  ;  if  you  had  forced  or  frightened  a  woman 
to  be  your  partner  till  death  do  part — you  loving  her,  she 
loathing  you  ;  you  conscious,  night  and  day,  that  your  very 
love  had  insured  her  misery,  and  that  misery  haunting  you 
like  a  ghost  ? — from  that  sorrow  I  have  saved  you.  May 
Providence  permit  me  to  complete  my  work,  and  save  you 
also  from  the  most  irredeemable  of  all  crimes  !  Look  into 
your  soul,  then  recall  the  thoughts  which  all  day  long,  and 
not  least  at  the  moment  I  crossed  this  threshold,  were  rising 
up,  making  reason  dumb  and  conscience  blind,  and  then  lay 
your  hand  on  your  heart  and  say,  '  I  am  guiltless  of  a  dream 
of  murder.' " 

The  wretched  man  sprang  up  erect,  menacing,  and, 
meeting  Kenelm's  calm,  steadfast,  pitying  gaze,  dropped  no 
less  suddenly — dropped  on  the  floor,  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands,  and  a  great  cry  came  forth  between  sob  and 
howl. 

"  Brother,"  said  Kenelm,  kneeling  beside  him  and  twin- 
ing his  arm  round  the  man's  heaving  breast,  "  it  is  over 
now  ;  with  that  cry  the  demon  that  maddened  you  has  fled 
forever." 


I40  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

When,  some  time  after,  Kcnelm  quitted  the  room  and 
joined  Mrs.  Bowles  below,  he  said  cheerily,  "All  right  ;  Ton\ 
and  I  are  sworn  friends.  We  are  going  together  to  Lus- 
combe  the  day  after  to-morrow — Sunday  ;  just  write  a  line 
to  his  uncle  to  prepare  him  for  Tom's  visit,  and  sendthithei 
his  clothes,  as  we  shall  walk,  and  steal  forth  unobserved  be- 
times in  the  morning.  Now  go  up  and  talk  to  him  ;  he 
wants  a  mother's  soothing  and  petting.  lie  is  a  noble  fellow 
at  heart,  and  we  shall  be  all  proud  of  him  some  day  or 
other." 

As  he  walked  back  towards  the  farmhouse,  Kenclm  en- 
countered Mr.  Lethbridge,  wlio  said,  "  I  have  come  from 
Mr.  Saunderson's,  wiiere  I  went  in  search  of  you.  There  is 
an  unexpected  hitch  in  the  negotiation  iox  Mrs.  Bawtrcy's 
shop.  After  seeing  you  this  morning  I  fell  in  with  Mr. 
Travers's  bailiff,  and  lie  tells  me  that  her  lease  does  not 
give  her  the  power  to  sublet  without  the  Squire's  consent ; 
and  that  as  the  premises  were  originally  let  on  very  low 
terms  to  a  favored  and  responsible  tenant,  Mr.  Travers  can- 
not be  expected  to  sanction  the  transfer  of  the  lease  to  a 
poor  basket-maker  :  in  fact,  though  he  will  accept  Mrs. 
Bawtrey's  resignation,  it  must  be  in  favor  of  an  applicant 
whom  he  desires  to  oblige.  On  hearing  this,  I  rode  over  to 
the  Park  and  saw  Mr.  Travers  himself.  But.  he  was  obdu- 
rate to  my  pleadings.  All  I  could  get  him  to  say  was,  '  Let 
the  stranger  who  interests  himself  in  the  matter  come  and 
talk  to  me.  I  should  like  to  see  the  man  who  thrashed  that 
brute  Tom  Bowles  ;  if  he  got  the  better  of  him  perhaps  he 
may  get  the  better  of  me.  Bring  him  with  you  to  my 
harvest-supper  to-morrow  evening.'     Now,  will  you  come?" 

"  Nay,"  said  Kenelm,  reluctantly,  "but  if  he  only  asks 
me  in  order  to  gratify  a  very  vulgar  curiosity,  I  don't  think 
I  have  much  chance  of  serving  Will  Somers.  What  do  you 
say  ?  " 

"The  Squire  is  a  good  man  of  business,  and  though  no 
one  can  call  him  unjust  or  grasping,  still  he  is  very  little 
touched  bv  sentiment  ;  and  we  must  own  that  a  sickly  crip- 
ple like  poor  Willis  not  a  very  eligible  tenant.    If,  therefore, 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  141 

it  depended  only  on  your  chance  with  the  Squire,  I  shovild 
not  be  very  sanguine.  But  we  have  an  ally  in  his  daughter. 
She  is  very  fond  of  Jessie  Wiles,  and  she  has  shown  great 
kindness  to  Will.  In  fact,  a  sweeter,  more  benevolent,  sym- 
pathizing nature  than  that  of  Cecilia  Travers  does  not  exist. 
She  has  great  influence  with  her  father,  and  through  her 
you  may  win  him." 

"  I  particularly  dislike  having  anything  to  do  with 
women,"  said  Kenelm,  churlishly.  "  Parsons  are  accus- 
tomed to  get  round  them.  Surely,  my  dear  sir,  you  are 
more  fit  for  that  work  than  I  am." 

"  Permit  me  humbly  to  doubt  that  proposition  ;  one  don't 
get  very  quickly  round  the  women  when  one  carries  the 
weight  of  years  on  one's  back.  But  whenever  you  want 
the  aid  of  a  parson  to  bring  your  own  wooing  to  a  happy 
conclusion,  I  shall  be  happy,  in  my  special  capacity  of  par- 
son, to  perform  the  ceremony  required." 

'*  Dii  tncliora  !  "  said  Kenelm,  gravely.  "  Some  ills  are  too 
serious  to  be  approached  even  in  joke.  As  for  Miss  Travers, 
the  moment  you  call  her  benevolent  you  inspire  me  witii 
horror.  I  know  too  well  what  a  benevolent  girl  is — offici- 
ous, restless,  fidgety,  with  a  snub  nose,  and  her  pocket  full 
of  tracts.     I  will  not  go  to  the  harvest-supper." 

"  Hist ! "  said  the  parson,  softly.  They  were  now  passing 
the  cottage  of  Mrs.  Somers  ;  and  wdiile  Kenelm  was  haran- 
guing against  benevolent  girls,  Mr.  Lethbridge  had  paused 
before  it,  and  was  furtively  looking  in  at  the  window.  "  Hist ! 
and  come  here, — gently." 

Kenelm  obeyed,  and  looked  in  through  the  window.  Will 
was  seated — Jessie  Wiles  had  nestled  herself  at  his  feet,  and 
was  holding  his  hand  in  both  hers,  looking  up  into  his  face. 
Her  profile  alone  was  seen,  but  its  expression  was  unutter- 
ably soft  and  tender.  His  face,  bent  downwards  towards 
her,  wore  a  mournful  expression  ;  nay,  the  tears  were  rolling 
silently  down  his  cheeks.  Kenelm  listened,  and  heard  her 
say,  "  Don't  talk  so.  Will  !  you  break  my  heart  ;  it  is  I  who 
am  not  worthy  of  you." 

"  Parson,"  said  Kenelm,  as  they  walked  on,  "  I  must  go 
to  that  confounded  harvest-supper.  I  begin  to  think  there 
is  something  true  in  the  venerable  platitude  about  love  in  a 
cottage.  And  Will  Somers  must  be  married  in  haste,  in 
order  to  repent  at  leisure." 

"  I  don't  see  why  a  man  should  repent  having  married  a 
good  girl  whom  he  loves."  . 


142  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

"  Yoii  don't  ?  Answer  me  candidly.  Did  you  never  meel 
a  man  who  repented  having  married  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  have  ;  very  often." 

"  "Well,  think  again,  and  answer  as  candidly.  Did  you 
ever  meet  a  man  who  repented  not  having  married  .-' " 

The  parson  mused,  and  was  silent. 

"  Sir,"  said  Kenclm,  "  your  reticence  proves  your  honesty, 
and  I  respect  it."  So  saying,  he  bounded  off,  and  left  the 
parson  crying  out  Avildly,  "  But — but " 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


Mr.  Saundkrson  and  Kenelm  sat  in  the  arbor ;  the 
former  sipping  his  grog,  and  smoking  his  pipe — the  latter 
looking  forth  into  the  summer  night  skies  with  an  earnest 
yet  abstracted  gaze,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  count  the  stars 
in  the  Milky  Way. 

"Ha!"  said  Mr.  Saunderson,  who  was  concluding  an 
argument ;  "  you  see  it  now,  don't  you  ? " 

"  I — not  a  bit  of  it.  You  tell  mc  that  your  grandfather 
was  a  farmer,  and  your  father  was  a  farmer,  and  that  you 
have  been  afarmer  for  thirty  years  ;  and  from  these  premises 
you  deduce  the  illogical  and  irrational  conclusion  that  there- 
fore your  son  must  be  a  farmer." 

"  Young  man,  you  may  think  yourself  very  knowing, 
'cause  you  have  been  at  the  'Yarsity  and  swept  away  a  head- 
ful  of  book-learning." 

"Stop,"  quoth  Kenelm.  "You  grant  that  a  university  is 
learned." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  so." 

"  But  how  could  it  be  learned  if  those  who  quitted  it 
brought  the  learning  away  ?  We  leave  it  all  behind  us  in 
the  care  of  the  tutors.  But  I  know  what  you  were  going 
to  say — that  it  is  not  because  I  had  read  more  books  than 
you  have  that  I  was  to  give  myself  airs  and  ])retend  to  have 
more  knowledge  of  life  than  a  man  of  your  years  and  ex- 
perience. Agreed,  as  a  general  rule.  But  does  not  every 
doctor,  however  wise  and  skilful,  prefer  taking  another 
doctor's  opinion  about  himself,  even  though  that  other  doctor 
has  just  started  in  practice?  And,  seeing  that  doctors,  tak- 
.ing  them  as  a  body,  are  monstrous  clever  fellows,  is  not  the 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  143 

example  they  set  us  worth  following  ?  Does  it  not  prove 
that  no  man,  however  wise,  is  a  good  judge  of  his  own  case  ? 
Now,  your  son's  case  is  really  your  case — you  see  it  through 
the  medium  of  your  likings  and  dislikings — and  insist  upon 
forcing  a  square  peg  into  a  round  hole,  because  in  a  round 
hole  you,  being  a  round  peg,  feel  tight  and  comfortable. 
Now,  I  call  that  irrational." 

"  I  don't  see  why  my  son  has  any  right  to  fancy  himself  a 
square  peg,"  said  the  farmer,  doggedly,  "when  his  father, 
and  his  grandfather,  and  his  great-grandfather,  have  been 
round  pegs  ;  and  it  is  agiu'  nature  for  any  creature  not  to 
take  after  its  own  kind.  A  dog  is  a  pointer  or  a  sheep-dog 
according  as  its  forebears  were  pointers  or  sheep-dogs. 
There,"  cried  the  farmer,  triumphantly,  shaking  the  ashes 
out  of  his  pipe,  "  I  think  I  have  posed  you,  young  master  !  " 

"  No  ;  for  you  have  taken  it  for  granted  that  the  breeds 
have  not  been  crossed.  But  suppose  that  a  sheep-dog  has 
married  a  pointer,  are  you  sure  that  his  son  will  not  be  more 
of  a  pointer  than  a  sheep-dog  ?  " 

Mr.  Saunderson  arrested  himself  in  the  task  of  refilling 
his  pipe,  and  scratched  his  head. 

"You  see,"  continued  Kenelm,  "  that  you  have  crossed 
the  breed.  You  married  a  tradesman's  daughter,  and  I  dare- 
say her  grandfather  and  great-grandfather  were  tradesmen 
too.  Now,  most  sons  take  after  their  mothers,  and  therefore 
Mr.  Saunderson,  junior,  takes  after  his  kind  on  the  distaff 
side,  and  comes  into  the  world  a  square  peg,  which  can  only 
be  tight  and  comfortable  in  a  square  hole.  It  is  no  use 
arguing,  farmer  :  your  boy  must  go  to  his  uncle  ;  and  there's 
an  end  of  the  matter." 

"  By  goles  !  "  said  the  farmer,  "you  seem  to  think  you 
can  talk  me  out  of  my  senses." 

"  No  ;  but  I  think  if  you  had  your  own  way  you  would 
talk  your  son  into  the  workhouse." 

"  What !  by  sticking  to  the  land  like  his  father  before 
him  ?  Let  a  man  stick  by  the  land,  and  the  land  will  stick 
by  him." 

"  Let  a  man  stick  in  the  mud,  and  the  mud  will  stick  to 
him.  You  put  your  heart  in  your  farm,  and  your  son  would 
only  put  his  foot  into  it.  Courage  !  Don't  you  see  that  Time 
is  a  whirligig,  and  all  things  come  round  ?  Every  day  some- 
body leaves  the  land  and  goes  off  into  trade.  By-and-by  he 
grows  rich,  and  then  his  great  desire  is  to  get  back  to  the 
land  again.      He  left  it  the  son  of  a  farmer  :  he  returns  to  it 


144  KENELAf  CHTLLTIVGLY. 

as  a  squire.  Your  son,  when  he  gets  to  be  fifty,  will  invest 
his  savings  in  acres,  and  have  tenants  of  his  own.  Lord,  liow 
lie  will  lay  down  the  law  to  them  !  I  would  not  advise  you 
to  take  a  farm  under  him." 

"  Catch  me  at  it !  "  said  the  farmer.  "  He  would  turn  all 
the  contents  of  the  'pothecary's  shop  into  my  fallows,  and 
call  it  '  progress.'  " 

"  Let  him  physic  the  fallows  when  he  has  farms  of  his 
own  :  keep  yours  out  of  his  chemical  clutches.  Come,  I 
shall  tell  him  to  pack  up  and  be  off  to  his  uncle's  next 
week." 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  farmer,  in  a  resigned  tone,  "a 
wilful  man  must  e'en  have  his  way." 

"  And  the  best  thinaf  a  sensible  man  can  do  is  not  to  cross 
it.  Mr.  Saunderson,  give  me  your  honest  hand.  You  are 
one  of  those  men  who  put  the  sons  of  good  fathers  in  mind 
of  their  own  ;  and  I  think  of  mine  when  I  sav,  'God  bless 
you!'" 

Quitting  the  farmer,  Kenelm  re-entered  tlie  house,  and 
sought  Mr.  Saunderson,  junior,  in  his  own  room.  He  found 
that  young  gentleman  still  up,  and  reading  an  eloquent  tract 
on  the  Emancipation  of  the  Human  Race  from  all  Tyrannical 
Control — Political,  Social,  Ecclesiastical,  and  Domestic. 

The  lad  looked  up  sulkily,  and  said,  on  encountering 
Kenelm's  melancholic  visage,  "Ah!  I  see  you  have  talked 
with  the  old  governor,  and  he'll  not  hear  of  it." 

"  In  the  first  place,"  answered  Kenelm,  "since  you  value 
yourself  on  a  superior  education,  allow  me  to  advise  you  to 
study  the  English  language  as  the  forms  of  it  are  maintained 
by  the  elder  authors — whom,  in  spite  of  an  Age  of  Progress, 
men  of  superior  education  esteem.  No  one  who  has  gone 
through  that  study — no  one,  indeed,  who  has  studied  the  Ten 
Commandments  in  the  vernacular — commits  the  mistake  of 
supposing  that  'the  old  governor'  is  a  synonymous  expres- 
sion for  'father.'  In  the  second  place,  since  you  pretend  to 
the  superior  enlightenment  which  results  from  a  superior 
-education,  learn  to  know  better  your  own  self  before  you 
set  up  as  a  teacher  of  mankind.  Excuse  the  liberty  I 
take,  as  your  sincere  well-wisher,  when  I  tell  you  that  you 
are  at  present  a  conceited  fool — in  short,  that  which  makes 
one  boy  call  another  '  an  ass.'  But  when  one  has  a  poor 
head  lie  may  redeem  the  average  balance  of  humanity  by 
increasing  the  wealth  of  the  heart.  Try  and  increase  yours. 
Your  father  consents  to  your  choice  of  your  lot  at  the  sacri- 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  145 

fice  of  all  his  own  inclinations  This  is  a  sore  trial  to  a 
father's  pride,  a  father's  affection  ;  and  few  fathers  make 
such  sacrifices  with  a  good  grace.  I  have  thus  kept  my 
promise  to  you,  and  enforced  your  wishes  on  Mr.  Saunder- 
son's  judgment,  because  I  am  sure  you  would  have  been  a 
very  bad  farmer.  It  now  remains  for  you  to  show  that  you 
can  be  a  very  good  tradesman.  You  are  bound  in  honor  to 
me  and  to  you^r  father  to  try  your  best  to  be  so  ;  and  mean- 
while leave  the  task  of  upsetting  the  world  to  those  who  have 
no  shop  in  it,  which  would  go  crash  in  the  general  tumble. 
And  so  good-night  to  you." 

To  these  admonitory  words,  sacro  digna  silentio,  Saunder- 
son  junior  listened  with  a  dropping  jaw  and  fascinated  staring 
eyes.  He  felt  like  an  infant  to  whom  the  nurse  has  given  a 
hasty  shake,  and  who  is  too  stupefied  by  that  operation  to 
know  whether  he  is  hurt  or  not. 

A  minute  after  Kenelm  had  quitted  the  room  he  reap- 
peared at  the  door,  and  said,  in  a  conciliatory  whisper,  "  Don't 
take  it  to  heart  that  I  called  you  a  conceited  fool  and  an  ass. 
These  terms  are  no  doubt  just  as  applicable  to  myself.  But 
there  is  a  more  conceited  fool  and  a  greater  ass  than  either 
of  us,  and  that  is,  the  Age  in  which  we  have  the  misfortune 
to  be  born— an  Age  of  Progress,  Mr.  Saunderson,  junior — 
an  Age  of  Prigs  !  " 


BOOK   IIL 


CHAPTER   I. 

If  there  were  a  woman  in  the  world  Avho  might  be  formed 
and  fitted  to  reconcile  Kenelm  Chillingly  to  the  sweet 
troubles  of  love  and  tlie  pleasant  bickerings  of  wedded  life, 
one  might  reasonably  suppose  that  that  woman  could  be 
found  in  Cecilia  Travers.  An  only  daughter,  and  losing  lier 
mother  in  childhood,  she  had  been  rAised  to  the  mistress-ship 
of  a  houseliold  at  an  age  in  which  most  girls  are  still  putting 
their  dolls  to  bed  ;  and  thus  had  early  acquired  that  sense 
of  responsibility,  accompanied  with  the  habits  of  self-reli- 
ance, which  seldom  fails  to  give  a  certain  nobility  to  char- 
acter ;  though  almost  as  often,  in  the  case  of  women,  it 
steals  away  the  tender  gentleness  which  constitutes  the 
charm  of  their  sex. 

It  had  not  done  so  in  the  instance  of  Cecilia  Travers, 
because  she  was  so  womanlike  that  even  the  exercise  of  power 
could  not  make  her  manlike.  There  was  in  the  depth  of  her 
nature  such  an  instinct  of  sweetness,  that  wherever  her  mind 
toiled  and  wandered  it  gathered  and  hoarded  honey. 

She  had  one  advantage  over  most  girls  in  the  same  rank  of 
life — she  had  not  been  taught  to  fritter  away  such  capacities 
for  culture  as  Providence  gave  licr  in  the  sterile  nothing- 
nesses which  are  called  feminine  accomplishments.  She  did 
not  paint  figures  out  of  drawing  in  meagre  water-colors  ; 
she  had  not  devoted  years  of  her  life  to  the  inflicting  on  po- 
lite audiences  the  boredom  of  Italian  bravuras,  which  they 
could  hear  better  sung  by  a  third-rate  professional  singer  in 
a  metropolitan  music-hall.  I  am  afraid  she  had  no  other 
female  accomplishments  than  those  by  which  the  seamstress 
or  embroideress  earns  her  daily  bread.  That  sort  of  work 
she  loved,  and  she  did  it  deftly. 

But,  if  she  had  not  been  profitlessly  plagued  by  masters, 
Cecilia  Travers  had  been  singidarly  favored  by  her  father's 
choice  of  a  teacher, — no  great  merit  in  him  either.     He  had 


KEKELM  CHILLINGLY.  147 

a  prejudice  against  professional  governesses,  and  it  chanced 
that  among  his  own  family  connections  was  a  certain  Mrs. 
Campion,  a  hidy  of  some  literary  distinction,  whose  husband 
had  held  a  high  situation  in  one  of  our  public  offices,  and 
living,  much  to  his  satisfaction,  up  to  a  very  handsome  in- 
come, had  died,  much  to  the  astonishment  of  others,  without 
leaving  a  farthing  behind  him. 

Fortunately,  there  were  no  children  to  provide  for.  A 
small  government  pension  was  allotted  to  the  widow  ;  and 
as  her  husband's  house  had  been  made  by  her  one  of  the 
pleasantest  in  London,  she  was  popular  enough  to  be  invit-' 
ed  by  numerous  friends  to  their  country  seats— among 
others,  by  Mr.  Travers.  She  came  intending  to  stay  a  fort- 
night. At  the  end  of  that  time  she  had  grown  so  attached 
to  Cecilia,  and  Cecilia  to  her,  and  her  presence  had  become 
so  pleasant  and  so  useful  to  her  host,  that  the  Squire  entreat- 
ed her  to  stay  and  undertake  the  education  of  his  daughter. 
Mrs.  Campion,  after  some  hesitation,  gratefully  consented  ; 
and  thus  Cecilia,  from  the  age  of  eight  to  her  present  age  of 
nineteen,  had  the  inestimable  advantage  of  living  in  constant 
companionship  with  a  woman  of  richly  cultivated  mind,  ac- 
customed to  hear  the  best  criticisms  on  the  best  books,  and 
adding  to  no  small  accomplishment  in  literature  the  refine- 
tnent  of  manners  and  that  sort  of  prudent  judgment  which 
result  from  habitual  intercourse  with  an  intellectual  and 
gracefully  world-wise  circle  of  society  ;  so  that  Cecilia  her- 
self, without  being  at  all  blue  or  pedantic,  became  one  of 
those  rare  young  women  with  whom  a  well-educated  man 
can  converse  on  equal  terms — from  whom  he  gains  as  much 
as  he  can  impart  to  her  ;  while  a  man  who,  not  caring  much 
about  books,  is  still  gentleman  enough  to  value  good  breed- 
ing, felt  a  relief  in  exchanging  the  forms  of  liis  native  lan- 
guage without  the  shock  of  hearing  that  a  bishop  was  "a 
swell,"  or  a  croquet-party  "  awfully  jolly." 

In  a  word,  Cecilia  Avas  one  of  those  women  whom  heaven 
forms  for  man's  helpmate — who,  if  he  were  born  to  rank  and 
wealth,  would,  as  his  partner,  reflect  on  them  a  new  dignity, 
and  add  to  their  enjoyment  by  bringing  forth  their  duties — 
who,  not  less  if  the  husband  she  chose  were  poor  and  strug- 
gling, would  encourage,  sustain,  and  soothe  him,  take  her 
own  share  of  his  burdens,  and  temper  the  bitterness  of  life 
with  the  all-recompensing  sweetness  of  her  smile. 

Little,  indeed,  as  yet  had  she  ever  thought  of  love  or  of 
lovers.     She  had  not  even  formed  to  herself  any  of  those 


148  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

ideals  which  float  before  the  eyes  of  most  girls  when  they 
enter  their  teens.  But  of  two  things  she  felt  inly  convinced 
— first,  that  she  could  never  wed  where  she  did  not  love  ; 
and,  secondly,  that  where  she  did  love  it  would  be  for  life. 

And  now  I  close  this  sketch  with  a  picture  of  the  girl 
herself.  She  has  just  come  into  her  room  from  inspecting 
the  preparations  for  the  evening  entertainment  which  her 
father  is  to  give  to  his  tenants  and  rural  neighbors. 

She  has  thrown  aside  her  straw  hat,  and  put  down  the 
large  basket  which  she  lias  emptied  of  flowers.  She  pauses 
before  the  glass,  smoothing  back  the  rufiied  bands  of  her 
hair — hair  of  a  dark,  soft  chestnut,  silky  and  luxuriant — 
never  polluted,  and  never,  so  long  as  she  lives,  to  be  pollut- 
ed, by  auricomous  cosmetics  : — far  from  that  delicate  dark- 
ness, every  tint  of  the  colors  traditionally  dedicated  to  the 
locks  of  Judas. 

Her  complexion,  usually  of  that  soft  bloom  which  in- 
clines to  paleness,  is  now  heightened  into  glow  by  exercise 
and  sunlight.  The  features  arc  small  and  feminine,  the  c)  es 
dark  with  long  lashes,  the  mouth  singularly  beautiful,  with 
a  dimple  on  either  side,  and  parted  now  in  a  half-smile  at 
some  pleasant  recollection,  giving  a  glimpse  of  small  teeth 
glistening  as  pearls.  But  the  peculiar  charm  of  her  face  is 
in  an  expression  of  serene  happiness,  that  sort  of  happiness 
which  seems  as  if  it  had  never  been  interrupted  by  a  sorrow, 
had  never  been  troubled  by  a  sin — that  holy  kind  of  happi- 
ness which  belongs  to  innocence,  the  light  reflected  from  a 
heart  and  conscience  alike  at  peace. 


CHAPTER    II. 


It  was  a  lovely  summer  evening  for  the  Squire's  rural 
entertainment.  Mr.  Travers  had  some  guests  staying  with 
him  :  they  had  dined  early  for  the  occasion,  and  were  now 
grouped  with  their  host,  a  little  before  six  o'clock,  on  the 
lawn.  The  house  was  of  irregular  architecture,  altered  or 
added  to  at  various  periods  from  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  to 
that  of  Victoria  :  at  one  end,  the  oldest  part,  a  gable  with 
muUion-windows  ;  at  the  other,  the  newest  part,  a  flat-roofed 
wing,  with  modern  sashes  opening  to  the  ground,  the  inter- 
mediate part  much  hidden  by  a  veranda  covered  with  creep- 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  149 

ers  in  full  bloom.  The  lawn  was  a  spacious  table-land  fac- 
ing the  west,  and  backed  by  a  green  and  gentle  hill,  crowned 
with  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  priory.  On  one  side  of  the 
lawn  stretched  a  flower-garden  and  pleasure  ground,  origin- 
ally planned  by  Repton  ;  on  the  opposite  angles  of  the  sward 
were  placed  two  large  marquees — one  for  dancing,  the  other 
for  supper.  Towards  the  south  the  view  was  left  open,  and 
commanded  the  prospect  of  an  old  English  park,  not  of  the 
stateliest  character,— not  intersected  with  ancient  avenues, 
nor  clothed  with  profitless  fern  as  lairs  for  deer — but  the 
park  of  a  careful  agriculturist,  uniting  profit  with  show, 
the  sward  duly  drained  and  nourished,  fit  to  fatten  bullocks 
in  an  incredibly  short  time,  and  somewhat  spoilt  to  the  eye 
by  subdivisions  of  wire-fence.  Mr.  Travers  was  renowned 
for  skilful  husbandry,  and  the  general  management  of  land 
to  the  best  advantage.  He  had  come  into  the  estate  while 
still  in  childhood,  and  thus  enjoyed  the  accumulations  of  a 
long  minority.  He  had  entered  the  Guards  at  the  age  of 
eighteen,  and  having  more  command  of  money  than  most  of 
his  contemporaries,  though  they  might  be  of  a  higher  rank 
and  the  sons  of  richer  men,  he  had  been  much  courted  and 
much  plundered.  At  the  age  of  twenty-five  he  found  him- 
self one  of  the  leaders  of  fashion,  renowned  chiefly  for  reck, 
less  daring  wherever  honor  could  be  plucked  out  of  the  nettle 
danger;  a  steeple-chaser,  whose  exploits  made  a  quiet  man's 
hair  stand  on  end  ;  a  rider  across  country,  taking  leaps 
Avhich  a  more  cautious  huntsman  carefully  avoided.  Known 
at  Paris  as  well  as  in  London,  he  had  been  admired  by  la- 
dies whose  smiles  had  cost  him  duels,  the  marks  of  which 
still  remained  in  glorious  scars  on  his  person.  No  man 
ever  seemed  more  likely  to  come  to  direst  grief  before  at- 
taining the  age  of  thirty,  for  at  twenty-seven  all  the  accu- 
mulations of  his  minority  were  gone,  and  his  estate,  which, 
when  he  came  of  age,  was  scarcely  three  thousand  a  year, 
but  entirely  at  his  own  disposal,  was  mortgaged  up  to  its 
eyes. 

His  friends  began  to  shake  their  heads  and  call  him 
"poor  fellow  ;"  but,  with  all  his  wild  faults,  Leopold  Trav- 
ers had  been  wholly  pure  from  the  two  vices  out  of  which 
a  man  does  not  often  redeem  himself.  He  had  never  drunk 
and  he  had  never  gambled.  His  nerves  were  not  broken, 
his  brain  w^as  not  besotted.  There  was  plenty  of  health  in 
him  yet,  mind  and  body.  At  the  critical  period  of  his  life 
he   married  for   love,  and  his  choice  was  a  most  felicitous 


I50  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

one.  The  lady  had  no  fortune  ;  but,  though  handsome  and 
high-born,  she  had  no  taste  for  extravagance,  and  no  desire 
for  other  society  than  that  of  the  man  she  loved.  So  when 
he  said,  "  Let  us  settle  in  the  country  and  try  our  best  to 
live  on  a  few  hundreds,  lay  by,  and  keep  the  old  place  out 
of  the  market,"  she  consented  with  a  joyful  heart :  and  mar- 
vel it  was  to  all  how  this  wild  Leopold  Travers  did  settle 
down  ;  did  take  to  cultivating  his  home  farm  with  liis  men 
from  sunrise  to  sunset,  like  a  common  tenant-farmer;  did 
contrive  to  pay  the  interest  on  the  mortgages,  and  keep  his 
head  above  water.  After  some  years  of  pupilage  in  this 
school  of  thrift,  during  which  his  habits  became  formed  and 
his  whole  character  braced,  Leopold  Travers  suddenly  found 
himself  again  rich,  through  the  wife  whom  he  had  so  pru- 
dently married  without  other  dower  than  her  love  and  her 
virtues.  Her  only  brother.  Lord  Eaglcton,  a  Scotch  peer, 
had  been  engaged  in  marriage  to  a  young  lady  considered 
to  be  a  rare  prize  in  the  lottery  of  wedlock.  The  marriage 
was  broken  off  under  very  disastrous  circumstances  ;  but 
the  young  lord,  good-looking  and  agreeable,  was  naturally 
expected  to  seek  speedy  consolation  in  some  other  alliance. 
Nevertheless  lie  did  not  do  so  ; — he  became  a  confirmed  in- 
valid, and  died  single,  leaving  to  his  sister  all  in  his  power 
to  save  from  the  distant  kinsman  who  succeeded  to  his  lands 
and  title, — a  goodly  sum,  which  not  only  sufficed  to  pay  off 
the  mortgages  on  Neesdale  Park,  but  bestowed  on  its 
owner  a  surplus  which  the  practical  knowledge  of  coimtry 
life  that  he  had  acquired  enabled  him  to  devote  with  extra- 
ordinary profit  to  the  general  improvement  of  his  estate. 
He  replaced  tumble-down  old  farm-buildings  with  new 
constructions  on  the  most  approved  principles  ;  bought  or 
pensioned  off  certain  slovenly  incompetent  tenants  ;  threw 
sundry  petty  holdings  into  large  farms  suited  to  the  buildings 
he  constructed  ;  purchased  here  and  there  small  bits  of  land, 
commodious  to  the  farms  they  adjoined,  and  completing  the 
integrity  of  his  ring-fence  ;  stubbed  up  profitless  woods 
which  diminished  the  value  of  neighboring  arables  by  ob- 
structing sun  and  air  and  harboring  legions  of  rabbits  ;  and 
then,  seeking  tenants  of  enterprise  and  capital,  more  than 
doubled  his  original  yearly  rental,  and  perhaps  more  than 
tripled  the  market  value  of  his  property.  Simultaneously 
with  this  acquisition  of  fortune,  he  emerged  from  the  in- 
]iospital)le  and  unsocial  obscurity  which  his  previous  pov- 
erty had  compelled,  took  an  active  part  in  county  business, 


KEN  ELM    CHILLINGLY.  151 

pioved  himself  an  excellent  speaker  at  public  meetings,  sub- 
scribed liberally  to  the  Hunt,  and  occasionally  joined  in  it 
— a  less  bold  but  a  wiser  rider  than  of  yore.  In  short,  as 
Themistocles  boasted  that  he  could  make  a  small  state  great, 
so  Leopold  Travers  might  boast  with  equal  truth  that,  by 
his  energies,  his  judgment,  and  the  weight  of  his  personal 
character,  he  had  made  the  owner  of  a  property  which  had 
been  at  his  succession  to  it  of  third-rate  rank  in  the  county, 
a  personage  so  considerable  that  no  knight  of  the  shire 
against  whom  he  declared  could  have  been  elected,  and  if 
he  had  determined  to  stand  himself  he  would  have  been 
chosen  free  of  expense. 

But  he  said,  on  being  solicited  to  become  a  candidate, 
"When  a  man  once  gives  himself  up  to  the  care  and  im- 
provement of  a  landed  estate,  he  has  no  time  and  no  heart 
for  anything  else.  An  estate  is  an  income  or  a  kingdom, 
according  as  the  owner  chooses  to  take  it.  I  take  it  as  a 
kingdom,  and  I  cannot  be  roi  faineant,  with  a  steward  for 
maire  dii  palais.  A  king  does  not  go  into  the  House  of 
Commons." 

Three  years  after  this  rise  in  the  social  ladder,  Mrs. 
Travers  was  seized  with  congestion  of  the  lungs,  followed 
by  pleurisy,  and  died  after  less  than  a  week's  illness.  Leo- 
pold never  wholly  recovered  her  loss.  Though  still  young, 
and  always  handsome,  the  idea  of  another  wife,  the  love  of 
another  woman,  were  notions  which  he  dismissed  from  his 
mind  with  a  quiet  scorn.  He  was  too  masculine  a  creature 
to  parade  grief.  For  some  weeks,  indeed,  he  shut  himself 
up  in  his  own  room,  so  rigidly  secluded  that  he  would  not 
see  even  his  daughter.  But  one  morning  he  appeared  in  his 
fields  as  usual,  and  from  that  day  resumed  his  old  habits, 
and  gradually  renewed  that  cordial  interchange  of  hospital- 
ities which  had  popularly  distinguished  him  since  his  ac- 
cession to  wealth.  Still,  people  felt  that  the  man  was 
changed  ;  he  was  more  taciturn,  more  grave  :  if  always  just 
in  his  dealings,  he  took  the  harder  side  of  justice,  where  in 
his  wife's  time  he  had  taken  the  gentler.  Perhaps,  to  a  man  of 
strong  will,  the  habitual  intercourse  with  an  amiable  woman 
is  essential  for  those  occasions  in  which  Will  best  proves 
the  fineness  of  its  temper  by  the  facility  with  which  it  can 
be  bent. 

It  may  be  said  that  Leopold  Travel's  miglit  have  found 
such  intercourse  in  the  intimate  companionship  of  his  own 
daughter.     But  slic  was  a  mere   child  when  his  wife  died, 


IS2  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

and  she  grew  up  to  womanhood  too  insensibly  for  him  to 
note  the  cliange.  Besides,  wliere  a  man  has  found  a  wife 
his  all-in-all,  a  daughter  can  never  supply  her  place.  The 
very  reverence  due  to  children  precludes  unrestrained  con- 
fidence ;  and  there  is  not  that  sense  of  permanent  fellowship 
in  a  daughter  which  a  man  has  in  a  wife, — any  day  a  stranger 
may  appear  and  carry  her  off  from  liim.  At  all  events 
Leopold  did  not  own  in  Cecilia  the  softening  influence  to 
which  he  had  yielded  in  her  mother.  He  was  fond  of  her, 
proud  of  her,  indulgent  to  her  ;  but  the  indulgence  had  its  set 
limits.  Whatever  she  asked  solely  for  herself  he  granted  ; 
whatever  she  wished  for  matters  under  feminine  control 
• — the  domestic  household,  the  parish  school,  the  alms- 
receiving  poor — obtained  his  gentlest  consideration.  But 
when  she  had  been  solicited  by  some  offending  out-of-door 
dependent  or  son'e  petty  defaulting  tenant  to  use  her  good 
offices  in  favor  of  the  culprit,  Mr.  Travcrs  checked  her  in- 
terference by  a  firm  "No,"  though  uttered  in  a  mild  accent, 
and  accompanied  with  a  masculine  aphorism  to  the  effect 
"  that  there  would  be  no  such  things  as  strict  justice  and  dis- 
ciplined order  in  the  world  if  a  man  yielded  to  a  woman's 
pleadings  in  any  matter  of  business  between  man  and  man." 
From  this  it  will  be  seen  that  Mr.  Lethbridge  had  overrated 
the  value  of  Cecilia's  alliance  in  the  negotiation  respecting 
Mrs.  Bavvtrey's  premium  and  shop. 


CHAPTER  III. 


If,  having  just  perused  what  has  thus  been  written  on  the 
biographical  antecedents  and  mental  characteristics  of  Leo- 
pold Travers,  you,  my  dear  reader,  were  to  be  personally 
presented  to  that  gentleman  as  he  now  stands,  the  central 
figure  of  the  group  gathered  round  him,  on  his  terrace,  you 
would  probably  be  surprised, — nay,  I  have  no  doubt  you 
Avould  say  to  yourself,  "Not  at  all  the  sort  of  man  I  ex- 
pected." In  that  slender  form,  somewhat  below  tlie  middle 
height  ;  in  that  fair  countenance  which  still,  at  the  age  of 
forty-eight,  retains  a  delicacy  of  feature  and  of  coloring 
which  is  of  almost  woman-like  beauty,  and,  from  the  quiet 
placidity  of  its  expression,  conveys  at  first  glance  the  notion 
of  almost   woman-like   mildness, — it  would    be   difficult   to 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  15^ 

recognize  a  man  who  in  youth  had  been  renowned  for  reck- 
less daring,  in  maturer  years  more  honorably  distinguished 
for  steadfast  prudence  and  determined  purpose,  and  who, 
alike  in  faults  or  in  merits,  was  as  emphatically  masculine, 
as  a  biped  in  trousers  can  possibly  be. 

Mr.  Travers  is  listening  to  a  young  man  of  about  tvvo-and- 
twenty,  the  eldest  son  of  the  richest  nobleman  of  the  county, 
and  who  intends  to  start  for  the  representation  of  the  shire 
at  the  next  general  election,  which  is  close  at  hand.  The 
Hon.  George  Belvoir  is  tall,  inclined  to  be  stout,  and  will 
look  well  on  the  hustings.  He  has  had  those  pains  taken 
with  his  education  which  an  English  peer  generally  does 
take  with  the  son  intended  to  succeed  to  the  representation 
of  an  honorable  name  and  the  responsibilities  of  high  station. 
If  eldest  sons  do  not  often  make  as  great  a  figure  in  the 
world  as  their  younger  brothers,  it  is  not  because  their 
minds  are  less  cultivated,  but  because  they  have  less  motive 
power  for  action.  George  Belvoir  was  well  read,  especially 
in  that  sort  of  reading  which  befits  a  future  senator — history, 
statistics,  political  economy,  so  far  as  that  dismal  science  is 
compatible  with  the  agricultural  interest.  .  He  was  also  well- 
principled,  had  a  strong  sense  of  discipline  and  duty,  was 
prepared  in  politics  firmly  to  uphold  as  right  whatever  was 
proposed  by  his  own  party,  and  to  reject  as  wrong  what- 
ever was  proposed  by  the  other.  At  present  he  was  rather 
loud  and  noisy  in  the  assertion  of  his  opinions, — young  men 
fresh  from  the  university  generally  are.  It  was  the  secret 
wish  of  Mr.  Travers  that  George  Belvoir  should  become  his 
son-in-law— less  because  of  his  rank  and  wealth  (though 
such  advantages  were  not  of  a  nature  to  be  despised  by  a 
practical  man  like  Leopold  Travers)  than  on  account  of 
those  qualities  in  his  personal  character  which  were  likely 
to  render  him  an  excellent  husband. 

Seated  on  wire  benches,  just  without  the  veranda,  but 
shaded  by  its  fragrant  festoons,  were  Mrs.  Campion  and 
three  ladies,  the  wives  of  neighboring  squires.  Cecilia 
stood  a  little  apart  from  them,  bending  over  a  long-backed 
Skye  terrier,  whom  she  was  teaching  to  stand  on  his  hind- 
legs. 

But  see,  the  company  are  arriving  !  How  suddenly  that 
green  space,  ten  minutes  ago  so  solitary,  has  become  animated 
and  populous  ! 

Indeed,  the  Park  now  presented  a  very  lively  appearance  : 
fans,    carts,   and  farmers'   chaises  were    seen    in    crowded 
7* 


154  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

procession  along  the  winding  road  ;  foot-passengers  were 
swarming  towards  the  house  in  all  directions.  The  herds 
and  tlocks  in  the  various  inclosurcs  stopped  grazing  to 
stare  at  the  unwonted  invaders  of  their  pasture  ;  yet  the 
orderly  nature  of  the  host  imparted  a  respect  for  order  to 
his  ruder  visitors  ;  not  even  a  turbulent  boy  attempted  to 
scale  the  fences  or  creep  through  their  wires  ;  all  threaded 
the  narrow  turnstiles  which  gave  egress  from  one  sub- 
division of  the  sward  to  another. 

Mr.  Travers  turned  to  Georoe  Bclvoir  :  "  I  see  old  farmer 
Steen's  yellow  gig.  Mind  how  you  talk  to  him,  George.  lie 
is  full  of  whims  and  crotchets,  and  if  you  once  brush  his 
feathers  the  wrong  way  he  will  be  as  vindictive  as  a  parrot. 
But  he  is  the  man  who  must  second  you  at  the  nomination. 
No  other  tenant-farmer  carries  the  same  weight  with  his 
class." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  George,  "  that  if  Mr.  Stcen  is  the  best 
man  to  second  me  at  the  hustings,  he  is  a  good  speaker." 

"  A  good  speaker  ? — in  one  sense  he  is.  He  never  says  a 
word  too  much.  The  last  time  he  seconded  the  nomination 
of  the  man  you  are  to  succeed,  this  was  his  speech  :  '  Brother 
Electors,  for  twenty  years  I  have  been  one  of  the  judges  at 
our  county  cattle-show.  I  know  one  animal  from  another. 
Looking  at  the  specimens  before  us  to-day,  none  of  them 
are  as  good  of  tlieir  kind  as  I've  seen  elsewhere.  But  if  you 
choose  Sir  John  Hogg  you'll  not  get  the  wrong  sow  by  the 
ear  ! '  " 

"  At  least,"  said  George,  after  a  laugh  at  this  sample  of 
eloquence  unadorned,  "  Mr.  Steen  does  not  err  on  the  side 
of  flattery  in  his  commendations  of  a  candidate.  But  what 
makes  him  such  an  authority  with  the  farmers  ?  Is  he  a 
first-rate  agriculturist  ?" 

"  In  tluift,  yes  ! — in  spirit,  no  !  He  says  that  all  expensive 
experiments  should  be  left  to  gentlemen  farmers.  He  is  an 
authority  with  other  tenants — istly.  Because  he  is  a  very 
keen  censor  of  their  landlords  ;  2dly,  Because  he  holds  him- 
self thoroughly  independent  of  his  own  ;  3dly,  Because  he  is 
supposed  to  have  studied  the  political  bearings  of  questions 
that  affect  the  landed  interest,  and  has  more  than  once  been 
summoned  to  give  his  opinion  on  such  subjects  to  Com- 
mittees of  both  Houses  of  Parliament.  Here  becomes.  Ob- 
serve, when  I  leave  you  to  talk  to  him,  istly,  that  you  confess 
utter  ignorance  of  practical  farming, — nothing  enrages  him 
like   the   presumption   of  a  gentleman  farmer  like  myself  ; 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  155 

2dly,  that  you  ask  his  opinion  on  the  publication  of  Agri- 
cultural Statistics,  just  modestly  intimating  that  you,  as  at 
present  advised,  think  that  inquisitorial  researches  into  a 
man's  business  involve  principles  opposed  to  the  British 
Constitution.  And  on  all  that  he  may  say  as  to  the  short- 
comings of  landlords  in  general,  and  of  your  father  in  par- 
ticular, make  no  reply,  but  listen  with  an  air  of  melancholy 
conviction.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Steen,  and  how's  the  Mis- 
tress ?     Why  have  you  not  brought  her  with  you  ?" 

**  My  good  woman  is  in  the  straw  again,  Squire.  Who  is 
that  youngster  ?  " 

"  Hist !  let  me  introduce  Mr.  Belvoir." 

Mr.  Belvoir  offers  his  hand. 

"  No,  sir ! "  vociferates  Steen,  putting  both  his  own 
hands  behind  him.  "  No  offence,  young  gentleman.  But  I 
don't  give  my  hand  at  first  sight  to  a  man  who  wants  to 
shake  a  vote  out  of  it.  Not  that  I  know  anything  against  you. 
But,  if  you  be  a  farmer's  friend,  rabbits  are  not,  and  my 
lord  vour  father  is  a  great  one  for  rabbits." 

"Indeed  you  are  mistaken  there!"  cries  George,  with 
vehement  earnestness.  Mr.  Travers  gave  him  a  nudge,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  Hold  your  tongue."  George  understood 
the  hint,  and  is  carried  off  meekly  by  Mr.  Steen  down  the 
solitude  of  the  plantation. 

The  guests  now  arrived  fast  and  thick.  They  consisted 
chiefly  not  only  of  Mr.  Travers's  tenants,  but  of  farmers  and 
their  families  within  the  range  of  eight  or  ten  miles  from  the 
Park,  with  a  few  of  the  neighboring  gentry  and  clergy. 

It  was  not  a  supper  intended  to  include  the  laboring 
class.  For  Mr.  Travers  had  an  especial  dislike  to  the  cus- 
tom of  exhibiting  peasants  at  feeding-time,  as  if  they  were 
so  many  tamed  animals  of  an  inferior  species.  When  he 
entertained  work-people,  he  made  them  comfortable  in  their 
own  way  ;  and  peasants  feel  more  comfortable  when  not  in- 
vited to  be  stared  out  of  countenance. 

"Well,  Lethbridge,"  said  Mr.  Travers,  "where  is  the 
young  gladiator  you  promised  to  bring?  " 

"  I  did  bring  him,  and  he  was  by  my  side  not  a  minute 
ago.  He  has  suddenly  given  me  the  slip — abiit.,  cvasit,  crupit. 
I  was  looking  round  for  him  in  vain  when  you  accosted 
me." 

"  I  hope  he  has  not  seen  some  guest  of  mine  whom  he 
wants  to  fight." 

"  I  hope  not,"  answered  the  Parson,  doubtfully.     "  He 


156  KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY. 

is  a  strange  fellow.  But  I  think  you  will  be  pleased  with 
him — that  is,  if  he  can  be  found.  Oh,  Mr.  Saunderson,  how 
do  you  do  ?     Have  you  seen  your  visitor  ? " 

"  No,  sir,  I  have  just  come.  My  INlistress,  Squire,  and 
my  three  girls  ; — and  this  is  my  son." 

"  A  hearty  welcome  to  all,"  said  the  graceful  Squire  ; 
(turning  to  Saunderson  junior)  "  I  suppose  you  are  fond  of 
dancing.  Get  yourself  a  partner.  Wc  may  as  well  open  the 
ball."   ^ 

"Thank  you,  si",  but  I  never  dance,"  said  Saunderson 
junior,  with  an  air  of  austere  superiority  to  an  amusement 
which  the  March  of  Intellect  had  left  behind. 

"  Then  you'll  have  less  to  regret  when  you  are  grown 
old.  But  the  band  is  striking  up  ;  we  must  adjourn  to  the 
marquee.  George  "  (Mr.  Belvoir,  escaped  from  Mr.  Steen, 
had  just  made  his  reappearance),  ''will  you  give  your  arm  to 
Cecilia,  to  whom  I  think  you  are  engaged  for  the  first 
quadrille  ?  " 

"  I  hope, "said  George  to  Cecilia,  as  tliey  walked  towards 
tlie  marquee,  "  that  Mr.  Steen  is  not  an  average  specimen  of 
the  electors  I  shall  have  to  canvass.  Whether  he  has  been 
brought  up  to  honor  his  own  father  and  mother  I  can't  pre- 
tend to  say,  but  he  seems  bent  upon  teaching  me  not  to 
honor  mine.  Having  taken  away  my  father's  moral  charac- 
ter upon  the  unfounded  allegation  that  he  loved  rabbits 
better  than  mankind,  he  then  assailed  my  innocent  mother 
on  the  score  of  religion,  and  inquired  when  she  was  going 
over  to  the  Church  of  Rome — basing  that  inquiry  on  the 
assertion  that  she  had  taken  away  her  custom  from  a  Pro 
testant  grocer  and  conferred  it  on  a  Papist." 

"  Those  are  favorable  signs,  Mr.  Belvoir.  Mr.  Steen 
always  prefaces  a  kindness  by  a  great  deal  of  incivility.  I 
asked  him  once  to  lend  me  a  pony,  my  own  being  suddenly 
taken  lame,  and  he  seized  that  opportunity  to  tell  me  that 
my  father  was  an  impostor  in  pretending  to  be  a  judge  of 
cattle  ;  that  he  was  a  tvrant,  screwing  his  tenants  in  order  to 
indulge  extravagant  habits  of  lujspitality  ;  and  implied  that 
it  would  be  a  great  mercy  if  he  did  not  live  to  apply  to  him, 
not  for  a  pcmy,  but  for  parochial  relief.  I  went  away  indig- 
nant. But  he  sent  me  the  i)(jny.  I  am  sure  he  will  give 
you  his  vote." 

"Meanwhile,"  said  George,  with  a  timid  attempt  at  gal- 
lantry, as  they  now  commenced  the  quadrille,  "I  take  en- 
couragement from  the  belief  that  I   have  the  good  wishes 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  157 

of  Miss  Travers.  If  ladies  had  votes,  as  Mr.  Mill  recom- 
mends, why,  then " 

"Why,  then,  I  should  vote  as  papa  does,"  said  Miss 
Travers,  simply.  "And  if  women  had  votes,  I  suspect  there 
would  be  very  little  peace  in  any  household  where  they  did 
not  vote  as  the  man  at  the  head  of  it  wished  them." 

"  But  I  believe,  after  all,"  said  the  aspirant  to  Parliament, 
seriously,  "  that  the  advocates  for  female  suffrage  would  limit 
it  to  women  independent  of  masculine  control — widows  and 
spinsters  voting  in  right  of  their  own  independent  tene- 
ments." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Cecilia,  "  I  suppose  they  would  still 
generally  go  by  the  opinion  of  some  man  they  relied  on,  or 
make  very  silly  choice  if  they  did  not." 

"You  underrate  the  good  sense  of  your  sex." 

"  I  hope  not.  Do  you  underrate  the  good  sense  of  yours, 
if,  in  far  more  than  half  the  things  appertaining  to  daily  life, 
the  wisest  men  say,  'better  leave  than  to  the  ivoinen  2  But 
you're  forgetting  the  figure — cavalier  seul." 

"  By  the  way,"  said  George,  in  another  interval  of  the 
dance,  "  do  you  know  a  Mr.  Chillingly,  the  son  of  Sir  Peter, 
of  Exmundham,  in  Westshire?" 

"  No  ;  why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  Because  I  thought  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face  :  it 
was  just  as  Mr.  Steen  was  bearing  me  away  down  the  planta- 
tion.    From  what  you  say,  I  must  suppose  I  was  mistaken." 

"  Chillingly  !  But  siu-ely  some  persons  were  talking  yes- 
terday at  dinner  about  a  young  gentleman  of  that  name  as 
being'  likely  to  stand  for  Westshire  at  the  next  election,  but 
whohad  made  a  very  unpopular  and  eccentric  speech  on  the 
occasion  of  his  coming  of  age." 

"The  same  man — I  was  at  college  with  him — a  very  sin- 
gular character.  He  was  thought  clever— won  a  prize  or 
two— took  a  good  degree,  but  it  was  generally  said  that  he 
would  have  deserved  a  much  higher  one  if  some  of  his  papers 
had  not  contained  covert  jests  either  on  the  subjects  or  the 
examiners.  It  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  set  up  as  a  humorist 
in  practical  life— especially  public  life.  They  say  Mr.  Pitt 
had  naturally  a  great  deal  of  wit  and  humor,  but  he  wisely 
suppressed  any  evidence  of  those  qualities  in  his  Parliamen- 
tary speeches.  Just  like  Chillingly,  to  turn  into  ridicule  the 
important  event  of  festivities  in  honor  of  his  coming  of  age 
—an  occasion  that  can  never  occur  again  in  the  whole  course 
of  his  life." 


158  KENELM  C/I/LLIXGLY. 

"  It  was  bad  taste,"  said  Cecilia,  "  if  intentional.  But 
perhaps  he  was  misunderstood,  or  taken  by  surprise." 

"Misunderstood — possibly;  but  taken  by  surprise — no. 
The  coolest  fellow  I  ever  met.  Not  that  I  have  met  him  very 
often.  Latterly,  indeed,  at  Cambridge  he  lived  much  alone. 
It  was  said  that  he  read  hard.  I  doubt  that,  for  my  rooms 
were  just  over  his,  and  I  know  that  he  was  much  more 
frequently  out  of  doors  than  in.  He  rambled  a  good  deal 
about  the  country  on  foot.  I  have  seen  him  in  by-lanes  a 
dozen  miles  distant  from  the  town  Avhen  I  have  been  riding 
back  from  the  Iliuit.  He  was  fond  of  the  water,  and  pulled 
a  mighty  strong  oar,  but  declined  to  belong  to  our  Univer- 
sity crew  ;  yet  if  ever  there  was  a  fight  between  undergradu- 
ates and  bargemen,  he  was  sure  to  be  in  the  midst  of  it.  Yes, 
a  very  great  oddity  indeed,  full  of  contradictions,  for  a  mild- 
er, quieter  fellow  in  general  intercourse  you  could  not  see; 
and  as  for  the  jests  of  which  he  was  accused  in  his  Examin- 
ation Papers,  his  very  face  should  have  acquitted  him  of  the 
charge  before  any  impartial  jury  of  his  countrymen." 

"You  sketch  quite  an  interesting  picture  of  him,"  said 
Cecilia.  "I  wish  we  did  know  him  ;  he  would  be  worth 
seeing." 

"  And,  once  seen,  you  would  not  easily  forget  him — a  dark 
handsome  face,  with  large  melancholy  eves,  and  with  one  of 
those  spare,  slender  figures  which  enable  a  man  to  disguise 
his  strength,  as  a  fraudulent  billiard-player  disguises  his 
play." 

The  dance  had  ceased  during  this  conversation,  and  the 
speakers  were  now  walking  slowly  to  and  fro  the  lawn  amid 
the  general  crowd. 

"  How  well  your  father  plays  the  part  of  host  to  these 
rural  folks  !  "  said  George,  with  a  secret  envy.  *'  Do  observe 
liow  quietly  he  puts  that  shy  young  farmer  at  his  ease,  and 
now  how  kindly  he  deposits  that  lame  old  lady  on  the  bench 
and  places  the  stool  under  her  feet.  What  a  canvasser  he 
would  be  !  and  how  young  he  still  looks,  and  how  monstrous 
handsome !  " 

This  last  compliment  was  littered  as  Travers,  having 
made  the  old  lady  comfortable,  had  joined  the  three  Miss 
Saundersons,  dividing  his  pleasant  smile  equally  between 
them,  and  seemingly  unconscious  of  the  admiring  glances 
which  many  another  rural  beauty  directed  towards  him  as 
he  passed  along.  About  the  man  tlicre  was  a  certain  inde- 
scribable elegance,  a  natural  suavity  free  from  all  that  afifec- 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY,  159 

tation,  whether  of  forced  heartiness  or  condescending  civil- 
ity, which  too  often  cliaracterizes  the  well-meant  efforts  of 
provincial  magnates  to  accommodate  themselves  to  persons 
of  inferior  station  and  breeding.  It  is  a  great  advantage  to  a 
man  to  have  passed  his  early  youth  in  that  most  equal  and 
most  polished  of  all  democracies — the  best  society  of  large 
capitals.  And  to  such  acquired  advantage  Leopold  Travers 
added  the  inborn  qualities  that  please. 

Later  in  the  evening,  Travers,  again  accosting  Mr.  Leth- 
bridge,  said,  "  I  have  been  talking  much  to  the  Saundersons 
about  that  young  man  who  did  us  the  inestimable  service  of 
punishing  your  ferocious  parishioner,  Tom  Bowles  ;  and  all 
I  hear  so  confirms  the  interest  your  own  account  inspired 
me  with,  that  I  should  really  like  much  to  make  his  ac- 
quaintance.    Has  not  he  turned  up  yet  ? "' 

"  No  ;  I  fear  he  must  have  gone.  But  in  that  case  I  hope 
you  will  take  his  generous  desire  to  serve  my  poor  basket- 
maker  into  benevolent  consideration." 

"  Do  not  press  me  ;  I  feel  so  reluctant  to  refuse  any  re- 
quest of  yours.  But  I  have  my  own  theory  as  to  the  man- 
agement of  an  estate,  and  my  system  does  not  allow  of  favor. 
I  should  wish  to  explain  that  to  the  young  stranger  himself. 
For  I  hold  courage  in  such  honor  that  I  do  not  like  a  brave 
man  to  leave  these  parts  with  an  impression  that  Leopold 
Travers  is  an  ungracious  churl.  However,  he  may  not  have 
gone.  I  will  go  and  look  for  him  myself.  Just  tell  Cecilia 
that  she  has  danced  enough  with  the  gentry,  and  that  I 
have  told  farmer  Turby's  son,  a  fine  young  fellow,  and  a 
capital  rider  across  country,  that  I  expect  him  to  show  my 
daughter  tiiat  he  can  dance  as  well  as  he  rides." 


CHAPTER  IV. 


Quitting  Mr.  Lethbridge,  Travers  turned  with  quick  step 
towards  the  more  solitary  part  of  the  grounds.  He  did  not 
find  the  object  of  his  search  in  the  walks  of  the  plantation  ; 
and,  on  takingthe  circuit  of  his  demesne,  wound  his  way  back 
towards  the  lawn  through  a  sequestered  rocky  hollow  in  the 
rear  of  the  marquee,  which  had  been  devoted  to  a  fernery. 
Here  he  came  to  a  sudden  pause  ;  for,  seated  a  few  yards 
before  him  on  a  gray  crag,  and  the  moonlight  full  on  his 


i6o  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

face,  he  saw  a  solitary  man,  looking  upwards  with  a  £lill 
and  mournful  gaze,  evidently  absorbed  in  abstract  coniem- 
plation. 

Recalling  the  description  of  the  stranger  which  he  had 
heard  from  Mr.  Lethbridge  and  the  Saundersons,  Mr.  Travers 
felt  sure  that  he  had  come  on  him  at  last.  He  approached 
gently  ;  and  being  much  concealed  by  the  tall  ferns,  Kenelm 
(for  that  itinerant  it  was)  did  not  see  him  advance,  until  he 
felt  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and,  tinning  round,  beheld  a 
winning  smile  and  lieard  a  pleasant  voice. 

"  I  think  I  am  not  mistaken,"  said  Leopcjld  Travers,  "  in 
assuming  you  to  be  the  gentleman  whom  Mr.  Lethbridge 
promised  to  introduce  to  me,  and  who  is  staying  with  my 
tenant  Mr.  Saunderson  .'' " 

Kenelm  rose  and  bowed.  Travers  saw  at  once  that  it  was 
the  bow  of  a  man  in  his  own  world,  and  not  in  keeping  with 
the  Sunday  costume  of  a  petty  farmer.  "  Nay,"  said  he,  "  let 
us  talk  seated;"  and,  placing  himself  on  the  crag,  he  niade 
room  for  Kenelm  beside  him. 

"  In  the  first  place,"  resumed  Travers,  "  I  must  thank  you 
for  having  done  a  public  service  in  putting  down  the  brute 
force  which  has  long  tyrannized  over  the  neighborhood. 
Often  in  my  young  days  I  have  felt  the  disadvantage  of 
height  and  sinews,  whenever  it  Avould  liave  been  a  great  con- 
venience to  terminate  dispute  or  chastise  insolence  by  a  re- 
sort to  man's  primitive  weapons  ;  hut  I  never  more  lamented 
my  physical  inferiority  than  on  certain  occasions  when  I 
would  have  given  my  ears  to  be  able  to  thrash  Tom  Bowles 
mysf^lf.  It  has  been  as  great  a  disgrace  to  my  estate  that 
that  bully  should  so  long  have  infested  it,  as  it  is  to  the 
King  of  Italy  not  to  be  able  with  all  his  armies  to  put  down 
a  brigand  in  Calabria." 

"Pardon  me,  Mr.  Travers,  but  I  am  one  of  those  rare 
persons  who  do  not  like  to  hear  ill  of  their  friends.  Mr. 
Thomas  Bowles  is  a  particular  friend  of  mine." 

"  Eh  !  "  cried  Travers,  aghast.  ** '  Friend  ' !  You  are  jok- 
ing." 

"You  would  not  accuse  me  of  joking  if  you  knew  me 
better.  But  surely  von  have  felt  that  there  are  few  friends 
one  likes  more  cordially,  and  ought  to  respect  more  heed- 
fully,  than  the  enemy  with  whom  one  has  just  made  it  up." 

"You  say  well,  and  I  accept  the  rebuke,"  said  Travers, 
more  and  more  surprised.  "And  I  certainly  have  less  right 
to  abuse  Mr.  Bowles  than   you  have,  since   I   had   not  the 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  i6i 

courage  to  fight  liini.  To  turn  to  another  subject  less  provo- 
cative. Mr.  Lethbridge  has  told  me  of  your  amiable  desire 
to  serve  two  of  his  young  parishioners — Will  Somers  and 
Jessie  Wiles — and  of  your  generous  offer  to  pay  the  money 
Mrs.  Bavvtrey  demands  for  the  transfer  of  her  lease.  To  that 
negotiation  my  consent  is  necessary,  and  that  consenc  I 
cannot  give.     Shall  I  tell  you  why  ? " 

*'  Pray  do.  Your  reasons  may  admit  of  argument." 
"  Every  reason  admits  of  argument,"  said  Mr.  Travers, 
amused  at  the  calm  assurance  of  a  youthful  stranger  in  anti- 
cipating argument  witli  a  skillful  proprietor  on  the  manage- 
ment of  his  own  property.  "  I  do  not,  however,  tell  you  my 
reasons  for  the  sake  of  argument,  but  in  vindication  of  my 
seeming  want  of  courtesy  towards  yourself.  I  have  had  a 
very  hard  and  a  very  difficult  task  to  perform  in  bringing 
the  rental  of  my  estate  up  to  its  proper  value.  In  doing  so, 
I  have  been  compelled  to  adopt  one  uniform  system,  equally 
applied  to  my  largest  and  my  pettiest  holdings.  That  system 
consists  in  securing  the  best  and  safest  tenants  I  can,  at  the 
rents  computed  by  a  valuer  in  whom  I  have  confidence.  To 
this  system,  universally  adopted  on  my  estate,  though  it  in- 
curred much  unpopularity  at  first,  I  have  at  length  succeeded 
in  reconciling  the  public  opinion  of  my  neighborhood. 
People  began  by  saying  I  was  hard  ;  they  now  acknowledge 
I  am  just.  If  I  once  give  way  to  favor  or  sentiment,  I  un- 
hinge my  whole  system.  Every  day  I  am  subjected  to  mov- 
ing solicitations.  Lord  Twostars — a  keen  politician — begs 
me  to  give  a  vacant  farm  to  a  tenant  because  he  is  an  excel- 
lent canvasser  and  has  alway  voted  straight  with  the  Party. 
Mrs.  Fourstars,  a  most  benevolent  woman,  entreats  me  not 
to  dismiss  another  tenant,  because  he  is  in  distressed  circum- 
stances and  has  a  large  family — very  good  reasons  perliaps 
for  my  excusing  him  an  arrear  or  allowing  him  a  retiring 
pension,  but  the  worst  reasons  in  the  world  for  letting  him 
continue  to  ruin  himself  and  my  land.  Now%  Mrs.  Bawtrcy 
has  a  small  holding  on  lease  at  the  inadequate  rent  of  ^8  a 
year.  She  asks  ^^45  for  its  transfer,  but  she  can't  transfer 
the  lease  without  my  consent ;  and  I  can  get  £^\2  a  year  as 
a  moderate  rental  from  a  large  choice  of  competent  tenants. 
It  will  better  answer  to  me  to  pay  her  the  ^45  myself,  which 
I  have  no  doubt  the  incoming  tenant  would  pay  me  back, 
at  least  in  part  ;  and  if  he  did  not,  the  additional  rent  would 
be  good  interest  for  my  expenditure  Now,  you  happen  to 
take  a  sentimental  interest,  as  you  pass  through  the  village, 


1 62  KEN  ELM  C//ILLLYGLY. 

in  the  loves  of  a  needy  cripple,  whose  utmost  industry  has 
but  served  to  save  himself  from  parish  relief,  and  a  giddy 
girl  without  a  sixpence,  and  you  ask  me  to  accept  these  very 
equivocal  tenants  instead  of  substantial  ones,  and  at  a  rent 
one-third  less  than  the  market  value.  Suppose  that  I  yielded 
to  your  request,  what  becomes  of  my  reputation  for  practical, 
business-like  justice  ?  I  shall  have  made  an  inroad  into  the 
system  by  which  my  whole  estate  is  managed,  and  have  in- 
vited all  manner  of  solicitations  on  the  part  of  friends  and 
neighbors,  which  I  could  no  longer  consistently  refuse,  hav- 
ing shown  how  easily  I  can  be  persuaded  into  compliance 
by  a  stranger  whom  I  may  never  see  again.  And  are  you 
sure,  after  all,  that,  if  you  did  prevail  on  me,  you  would  do 
the  individual  good  you  aim  at  ?  It  is,  no  doubt,  very  pleas- 
ant to  think  one  has  made  a  young  couple  happy.  But  if 
that  young  couple  fail  in  keeping  the  little  shop  to  which 
would  transplant  them  (and  nothing  more  likely — peasants 
seldom  become  good  shop-keepers),  and  find  themsches, 
with  a  family  of  children,  dependent  solely,  not  on  the  arm 
of  a  strong  laborer,  but  the  ten  fingers  of  a  sickly  cripple, 
who  makes  clever  baskets,  for  which  there  is  but  slight  and 
precarious  demand  in  the  neighborhood,  may  you  not  have 
insured  the  misery  of  the  couple  you  wished  to  render 
happy  ? " 

"1  withdraw  all  argument,"  said  Kcnclm.  with  an  aspect 
so  humiliated  and  dejected  that  it  would  have  softened  a 
Greenland  bear,  or  a  Counsel  for  the  Prosecution.  "  I  am 
more  and  more  convinced  that  of  all  the  shams  in  the  world, 
that  of  benevolence  is  the  greatest.  It  seems  so  easy  to  do 
good,  and  it  is  so  difficult  to  do  it.  Everywhere,  in  this 
hateful  civilized  life,  one  runs  one's  head  against  a  system. 
A  system,  Mr.  Travers,  is  man's  servile  imitation  of  the  blind 
tyranny  of  what  in  our  ignorance  we  call  '  Natural  Laws,'  a 
mechanical  something  through  which  the  world  is  ruled  by 
tlie  cruelty  of  General  Principles,  to  the  utter  disregard  of 
individual  welfare.  By  Natural  Laws  creatures  prey  on  each 
other,  and  big  fishes  eat  little  ones  upon  system.  It  is, 
nevertheless,  a  hard  thing  for  the  little  fish.  Every  nation, 
every  town,  every  hamlet,  every  occujoation,  has  a  system,  by 
wliich,  somehow  or  other,  the  pond  swarms  with  fishes,  of 
which  a  great  many  inferiors  contribute  to  increase  the  size 
of  a  superior.  It  is  an  idle  benevolence  to  keep  one  solitary 
gudgeon  out  of  the  jaws  of  a  yixkc.  Here  am  I  doing  what 
I  thought  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world,  asking  a  gentle- 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  163 

man,  evidently  as  good-natured  as  myself,  to  allow  an  old 
woman  to  let  her  premises  to  a  deserving  young  couple,  and 
paying  what  she  asks  for  it  out  of  my  own  money.  And  I 
find  that  I  am  running  against  a  system,  and  invading  all 
the  laws  by  which  a  rental  is  increased  and  an  estate  im- 
proved. Mr.  Travers,  you  have  no  cause  for  regret  in  not 
having  beaten  Tom  Bowles.  You  have  beaten  his  victor, 
and  I  now  give  up  all  dream  of  further  interference  with  the 
Natural  Laws  that  govern  the  village  which  I  have  visited 
in  vain.  I  had  meant  to  remove  Tom  Bowles  from  that 
quiet  community.  I  shall  now  leave  him  to  return  to  his 
former  habits — to  marry  Jessie  Wiles— which  he  certainly 
will  do,  and " 

"  Hold  !  "  cried  Mr.  Travers.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  that 
you  can  induce  Tom  Bowles  to  leave  the  village  ?  " 

"  I  had  induced  him  to  do  it,  provided  Jessie  Wiles 
married  the  basket-maker  ;  but,  as  that  is  out  of  the  question, 
I  am  bound  to  tell  him  so,  and  he  will  stay." 

"  But  if  he  left,  what  would  become  of  his  business  ?  His 
mother  could  not  keep  it  on  ;  his  little  place  is  a  freehold, 
the  only  house  in  the  village  that  does  not  belong  to  me,  or 
I  should  have  ejected  him  long  ago.  Would  he  sell  the 
premises  to  me  ?  " 

"  Not  if  he  stays  and  marries  Jessie  Wiles.  But  if  he 
goes  with  me  to  Luscombe  and  settles  in  that  town  as  a 
partner  to  his  uncle,  I  suppose  he  would  be  too  glad  to  sell 
a  house  of  which  he  can  have  no  pleasant  recollection.  But 
what  then  ?  You  cannot  violate  your  system  for  the  sake  of 
a  miserable  forge." 

"  It  would  not  violate  my  system  if,  instead  of  yielding 
to  a  sentiment,  I  gained  an  advantage  ;  and,  to  say  truth,  I 
should  be  very  glad  to  buy  that  forge  and  the  fields  that  go 
with  it." 

'"Tis  your  affair  now,  not  mine,  Mr.  Travers.  I  no  long- 
er presume  to  interfere.  I  leave  the  neighborhood  to-mor- 
row :  see  \i you  can  negotiate  with  Mr.  Bowles.  1  have  the 
honor  to  wish  you  a  good-evening." 

"  Nay,  young  gentleman,  I  cannot  allow  you  to  quit  me 
thus.  You  have  declined  apparently  to  join  the  dancers, 
but  you  will  at  least  join  the  supper.     Come  !  " 

"  Thank  you  sincerely,  no.  I  cam.e  here  merely  on  the 
business  wliich  your  system  has  settled." 

"  But  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  settled."  Here  Mr.  Tra- 
vers wound  his  arm  within  Kenelm's,  and,  looking  him  full 


1 64  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

in  the  face,  said,  "  I  know  that  T  am  speaking  to  a  gentle- 
man at  least  equal  in  rank  to  myself,  but  as  I  enjoy  the  me- 
lancholy privilege  of  being  the  older  man,  do  not  think  I 
take  an  unwarrantable  liberty  in  asking  if  you  object  to  tell 
me  your  name.  I  should  like  to  introduce  you  to  my 
daughter,  who  is  very  partial  to  Jessie  Wiles  and  to  Will 
Sjmers.  But  I  can't  venture  to  inflame  her  imagination  by 
designating  you  as  a  prince  in  disguise." 

"Mr.  Travers,  you  express  yourself  with  exquisite  deli- 
cacy. But  I  am  just  starting  in  life,  and  I  shrink  from  mor- 
tifying my  father  by  associating  my  name  with  a  signal 
failure.  Suppose  I  were  an  anonymous  contributor,  say,  to 
'The  Londoner,'  and  I  had  just  brought  that  highly  intel- 
lectual journal  into  discredit  by  a  feeble  attempt  at  a  good- 
natured  criticism  or  a  generous  sentiment,  wcnild  that  be 
the  fitting  occasion  to  throw  off  the  mask  and  parade  myself 
to  a  mockina:  world  as  the  imbecile  violator  of  an  established 
system  ?  Should  I  not,  in  a  moment  so  untoward,  more 
than  ever  desire  to  merge  my  insignificant  unit  in  the  mys- 
terious importance  which  the  smallest  Singular  obtains 
when  he  makes  himself  a  Plural,  and  speaks  not  as  *I,'  but 
as  '  We  '  ?  \Vc  are  insensible  to  the  cliarm  of  young  ladies  ; 
We  are  not  bribed  by  suppers  ;  We,  like  the  witches  of  Mac- 
beth, have  no  name  on  earth  ;  We  are  the  greatest  wisdom 
of  the  greatest  number  ;  Wc  are  so  upon  system  ;  We  salute 
you,  Mr.  Travers,  and  depart  unassailable." 

Here  Kenelm  rose,  doffed  and  replaced  his  hat  in  majes- 
tic salutation,  turned  towards  the  entrance  of  the  fernery, 
and  found  himself  suddenly  face  to  face  with  George  Bel- 
voir,  behind  whom  followed,  with  a  throng  of  guests,  the 
fair  form  of  Cecilia.  George  Belvoir  caught  Kenelm  by  the 
hand,  and  exclaimed,  "Chillingly  !  I  thought  I  could  not  be 
mistaken." 

"Chillingly!"  echoed  Leopold  Travers  from  behind. 
"  Are  you  the  son  of  my  old  friend  Sir  Peter  ?" 

Thus  discovered  and  environed,  Kenelm  did  not  lose  his 
wonted  presence  of  mind  ;  he  turned  round  to  Leopold  Tra- 
vers, who  was  now  close  in  his  rear,  and  whispered,  "  If  my 
father  was  your  friend,  do  not  disgrace  his  son.  Do  not  say 
I  am  a  failure.  Deviate  from  your  system,  and  let  Will 
Somers  succeed  Mrs.  Bawtrey."  Then  reverting  his  face  to 
Mr.  Belvoir,  lie  said,  tranquillv,  "Yes  ;  we  have  met  before." 

"  Cecilia,"  said  Travers,  now  interposing,  "I  am  happy 
to  introduce  to  you  as  Mr.  Chillingly,  not  only  the  son  of 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  165 

ail  old  friend  of  mine,  not  only  the  knight-errant  of  whose 
gallant  conduct  on  behalf  of  yowx protegee  Jessie  Wiles  we 
have  heard  so  much,  but  the  eloquent  arguer  who  has  con- 
quered my  better  judgment  in  a  matter  on  which  I  thought 
myself  infallible.  Tell  Mr.  Lethbridge  that  I  accept  Will 
Somers  as  a  tenant  for  Mrs.  Bawtrey's  premises." 

Kenelm  grasped  the  Squire's  hand  cordially.  "  May  it 
be  in  my  power  to  do  a  kind  thing  to  you,  in  spite  of  any 
system  to  the  contrary  !" 

"Mr.  Chillingly,  give  your  arm  to  my  daughter.  You 
will  not  now  object  to  join  the  dancers  ? " 


CHAPTER  V. 


Cecilia  stole  a  shy  glance  at  Kenelm  as  the  two  emerged 
from  the  fernery  into  the  open  space  of  the  lawn.  His 
countenance  pleased  her.  She  thought  she  discovered  much 
latent  gentleness  under  the  cold  and  mournful  gravity  of  its 
expression  ;  and  attributing  the  silence  he  maintained  to 
some  painful  sense  of  an  awkward  position  in  the  abrupt 
betrayal  of  his  incognito,  sought  wnth  womanly  tact  to  dis- 
pel his  supposed  embarrassment. 

"You  have  chosen  a  delightful  mode  of  seeing  the  coun- 
try this  lovely  summer  weather,  Mr.  Chillingly.  I  believe 
such  pedestrian  exercises  are  very  common  with  University 
Students  during  the  Long  Vacation." 

"  Very  common,  though  they  generally  wander  in  packs 
like  wild  dogs  or  Australian  dingoes.  It  is  only  a  tame  dog 
that  one  finds  on  the  road  traveling  by  himself  ;  and  then, 
unless  he  behaves  very  quietly,  it  is  ten  to  one  that  he  is 
stoned  as  a  mad  dog." 

"  But  I  am  afraid,  from  what  I  hear,  that  you  have  not 
been  traveling  very  quietly." 

"  You  are  quite  right,  Miss  Travers,  and  I  am  a  sad  dog 
if  not  a  mad  one.  But  pardon  me,  we  are  nearing  the 
marquee  ;  the  band  is  striking  up,  and,  alas  !  I  am  not  a 
dancing  dog." 

He  released  Cecilia's  arm,  and  bowed. 

"  Let  us  sit  here  awhile,  then,"  said  she,  motioning  to  a 
garden-bench.  "I  have  no  engagement  for  the  next  dance, 
and,  as  I  am  a  little  tired,  I  shall  be  glad  of  a  reprieve." 


i66  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

Kenclm  sighed,  and,  with  the  air  of  a  martyr  stretching 
Iiimself  on  the  rack,  took  liis  phice  beside  the  fairest  girl  in 
the  county. 

"You  were  at  college  with  Mr.  Belvoir?" 

"I  was." 

"  He  was  thought  clever  there  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  a  doubt  of  it." 

"You  know  he  is  convassing  our  county  for  the  next 
election.  My  father  takes  a  warm  interest  in  his  success, 
and  thinks  he  will  be  a  useful  member  of  Parliament." 

"  Of  that  I  am  certain.  For  the  first  five  years  he  will  be 
called  pushing,  noisy,  and  conceited,  much  sneered  at  by 
men  of  his  own  age,  and  coughed  down  on  great  occasions  ; 
for  the  five  following  years  he  will  be  considered  a  sensible 
man  in  committees,  and  a  necessary  feature  in  debate  ;  at  the 
end  of  those  years  he  will  be  an  under-secretary  ;  in  five 
years  more  he  will  be  a  Cabinet  Minister,  and  the  represen- 
tative of  an  important  section  of  opinions  :  he  will  be  an  ir- 
reproachable private  character,  and  his  wife  will  be  seen 
wearing  the  family  diamonds  at  all  the  great  parties.  She 
will  take  an  interest  in  politics  and  theology  ;  and  if  she  die 
before  him,  her  husband  will  show  his  sense  of  wedded  hap- 
piness by  clioosing  another  lady,  equally  fitted  to  wear  the 
family  diamonds  and  to  maintain  the  family  consequence." 

In  spite  of  her  laughter,  Cecilia  felt  a  certain  awe  at  the 
solemnity  of  voice  and  manner  with  which  Kenelm  deliver- 
ed these  oracular  sentences,  and  the  whole  prediction  seemed 
strangely  in  unison  with  licr  own  impressions  of  the  char- 
acter whose  fate  was  thus  shadowed  out. 

"Are  you  a  fortune-teller,  Mr.  Chillingly?"  she  asked, 
falteringly,  and  after  a  pause. 

"As  good  a  one  as  any  whose  hand  you  could  cross  with 
a  shilling." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  my  fortune  ?  " 

"No  ;  I  never  tell  tlie  foi  tunes  of  ladies,  because  your 
sex  is  credulous,  and  a  lady  miglit  believe  what  I  tell  her. 
And  when  we  believe  such  and  such  is  to  be  our  fate,  we  are 
too  apt  to  work  out  our  life  into  the  verification  of  the  be- 
lief. If  Lady  Macbetli  had  disbelieved  in  the  witches,  she 
would  never  have  persuaded  her  lord  to  murder  Duncan." 

"  But  can  vou  not  predict  me  a  more  cheerful  fortune 
than  that  tragical  illustration  of  yours  seems  to  threaten  ?" 

"The  future  is  never  cheerful  to  those  who  look  on  the 
dark  side  of  the  question.     Mr.  Gray  is  too  good  a  poet  for 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  167 

people  to  read  nowadays,  otherwise  I  should  refer  you  to  his 
lines  in  the  Ode  to  Eton  College — 

'  See  how  all  around  us  wait 
The  muiisters  of  human  fate, 

And  black  Misfortune's  baleful  train.* 

Meanwhile  it  is  something  to  enjoy  the  present.  We  are 
young — we  are  listening  to  music — there  is  no  cloud  over 
the  summer  stars — -our  conscience  is  clear— our  hearts  un- 
troubled :  why  look  forward  in  search  of  happiness  ? — shall 
we  ever  be  happier  than  we  are  at  this  moment  ? " 

Here  Mr.  Travers  came  up.  "  We  are  going  to  supper 
in  a  few  minutes,"  said  he  ;  "  and  before  we  lose  siglit  of 
each  other,  Mr.  Chillingly,  I  wish  to  impress  on  you  the 
moral  fact  that  one  good  turn  deserves  another.  I  have 
yielded  to  your  wish,  and  now  you  must  yield  to  mine. 
Come  and  stay  a  few  days  wnth  me,  and  see  your  benevolent 
intentions  carried  out." 

Kenelm  paused.  Now  that  he  was  discovered,  why 
should  he  not  pass  a  few  days  among  his  equals  ?  Realities 
or  shams  might  be  studied  with  squires  no  less  than  with 
farmers  ;  besides,  he  had  taken  a  liking  to  Travers.  That 
graceful  cidevant  Wildair,  wath  the  slight  form  and  the  deli- 
cate face,  was  unlike  rural  squires  in  general.  Kenelm 
paused,  and  then  said,  frankly  : 

"  I  accept  your  invitation.  Would  the  middle  of  next 
week  suit  you  ?  " 

"  The  sooner  the  better.     Why  not  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  I  am  pre-engaged  to  an  excursion  with  Mr. 
Bowles.  That  may  occupy  two  or  three  days,  and  mean- 
while I  must  write  home  for  other  garments  tlian  those  in 
which  I  am  a  sham." 

"  Come  any  day  you  like." 

"  Agreed." 

"Agreed  ;  and,  hark  !  the  supper-bell." 

"  Supper,"  said  Kenelm,  offering  his  arm  to  Miss  Tra- 
vers,— "  supper  is  a  word  truly  interesting,  truly  poetical. 
It  associates  itself  with  the  entertainments  of  the  ancients 
— with  the  Augustan  age — with  Horace  and  Maecenas  ;— 
with  the  only  elegant  but  too  fleeting  period  of  the  modern 
world — with  the  nobles  and  wits  of  Paris,  when  Paris  had 
wits  and  nobles  ; — with  Moliere  and  the  warm-hearted  Duke 
who  is  said  to  have   been  the   original  of  Moliere's  Misan- 


l68  JCENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

thrope; — with  Madame  de  St'vigne  and  the  Racine  whom 
that  inimitable  letter-writer  denied  to  be  a  poet  ; — with  Swift 
and  Bolingbroke  -  with  Johnson,  Goldsmith,  and  Garrick. 
Epochs  are  signalized  by  their  eatings.  I  honor  him  who 
revives  the  Golden  Age  of  suppers."  So  saying,  his  face 
brightened. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY,    ESQ.,    TO   SIR    PETER   CHILLINGLY,    BART., 

ETC.    ETC. 

*'  My  dear  Father, — I  am  alive  and  unmarried.  Providence  has 
watched  over  me  in  these  respects  ;  but  I  have  Iiad  narrow  escapes.  Hither- 
to I  have  not  accjuired  much  wordly  wisdom  in  my  travels.  It  is  true  that  I 
have  been  paid  two  shillings  as  a  day-laborer,  and,  in  fact,  have  fairly  earned 
at  least  six  shillings  more  ;  but  against  that  additional  claim  I  generously  :-t\. 
off,  as  an  ecjuivalent,  my  board  and  lodging.  On  the  other  hand,  I  have  spent 
forty-five  pounds  out  of  ilie  fifty  which  I  devoted  to  the  purchase  of  experience. 
But  I  hope  you  will  be  a  gainer  by  that  investment.      Send  an  order  to  Mr. 

William  Somers,  basket-maker,  Graveleigh,  shire,  for  the  hampers  and 

game-baskets  you  require,  and  I  undertake  to  say  that  you  will  save  twenty 
percent,  on  that  article  (all  expenses  of  carriage  deducted),  and  do  a  good 
action  into  the  bargani.  You  know,  from  long  habit,  what  a  good  action  is 
worth  better  than  I  do.  I  daresay  you  will  be  more  pleased  to  learn,  than  I 
am  to  record,  the  fact  that  I  have  been  again  decoyed  into  the  society  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  and  have  accepted  an  invitation  to  pass  a  few  days  at  Neesdale 
Park  with  Mr.  Travers — christened  Leopold — who  calls  you  'his  old  friend' 
— a  term  which  I  take  for  granted  belongs  to  that  class  of  poetic  exaggeration 
in  which  the  'dears'  and  'darlings'  of  conjugal  intercourse  may  be  catego- 
rized. Having  for  that  visit  no  suitable  garments  in  my  knapsack,  kindly  tell 
Jenkes  to  forward  me  a  portmanteauful  of  those  which  I  habitually  wore  as 
Kenelm  Chillingly,  directed  to  me  at  '  Neesdale  Park,  near  Beaverston.'  Let 
me  find  it  there  on  Wednesday. 

"  I  leave  this  ]ilace  to-morrow  morning  in  company  with  a  friend  of  the 
name  of  Bowie? — no  relation  to  the  reveremi  gentleman  of  that  name  who 
held  the  doctrine  that  a  ]5oet  should  bore  us  to  death  with  fiddle-faddle  minu- 
tiae of  natural  objects  in  preference  to  that  study  of  the  insignificant  creature 
Man,  in  his  relations  to  his  species,  to  which  Mr.  Pope  limited  the  range  of 
his  inferior  muse  ;  and  who,  practising  as  he  preached,  wrote  some  very  nice 
verses,  to  which  the  Lake  school  and  its  successors  are  largely  indebted.  My 
Mr.  Bowles  has  e.^ercised  his  faculty  upon  Man,  and  has  a  jiowerful  inborn 
gift  in  that  line  which  only  requires  cultivation  to  render  him  a  match  for  any 
one.  His  more  masculine  nature  is  at  present  much  ob>cured  by  that  pass- 
ing cloud  which,  in  conventional  language,  is  calletl  "  a  Hopeless  Attachment.' 
But  I  trust,  in  the  course  of  our  excursion,  which  is  to  be  taken  on  foot,  that 
this  vapor  may  consolidate  by  motion,  as  some  old-fashioned  astronomers  held 
that  the  nebula  does  consolidate  into  a   matter-of-fact  world.     Is  it  Roche- 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  169 

foucauld  who  says  that  a  man  is  never  more  likely  to  form  a  hopeful  attach- 
ment  for  one  than  when  his  heart  is  softened  by  a  liopeless  attachment  to 
another?  May  it  be  long,  my  dear  fatlier,  before  you  condole  wiili  me  on 
the  fust  or  congratulate  me  on  the  second. — Your  affectionate  son, 

''Kenelm. 

"Direct  to  me  at  Mr.  Travers's.     Kindest  love  to  my  mother." 


The  answer  to  this  letter  is  here  subjoined  as  the  most 
convenient  place  for  its  insertion,  though  of  course  it  was 
not  received  till  some  days  after  the  date  of  my  next 
chapter. 

SIR   PETER    CHILLINGLY,    BART.,    I O   KENELM    CHILLINGLY,    ESQ. 

"  My  dear  Boy, — With  this  I  despatch  the  portmanteau  you  require  to 
the  address  that  you  give.  I  remember  well  Leopold  Travers  when  he  was  in 
the  Guards — a  very  handsome  and  a  very  wild  young  fellow.  But  he  had 
much  more  sense  than  people  gave  him  credit  for,  and  frequented  intellectual 
society ;  at  least  I  met  him  very  often  at  my  friend  Campion's,  whose  house 
was  then  the  favorite  rendezvous  of  distinguished  persons.  He  had  very  win- 
nmg  manners,  and  one  could  not  help  taking  an  interest  in  him.  I  was  very 
glad  when  I  heard  he  had  married  and  reformed.  Here  I  beg  to  observe  that 
a  man  who  contracts  a  taste  for  low  company  may  indeed  often  marry,  but  he 
seldom  reforms  when  lie  does  so.  And,  on  the  whole,  I  should  be  much 
pleased  to  hear  that  the  experience  which  has  cost  you  forty-five  pounds  had 
convinced  you  that  you  might  be  better  employed  than  earning  two,  or  even 
six  shillings,  as  a  day-laborer. 

''I  have  not  given  your  love  to  your  mother,  as  you  requested.  In  fact, 
you  have  placed  me  in  a  very  false  position  towards  that  other  author  of  your 
eccentric  being.  I  could  only  guard  you  from  the  inquisition  of  the  police 
and  the  notoriety  of  descriptive  hand-bill--,  by  allowing  my  lady  to  suppose 
that  you  had  gone  abroad  with  the  Duke  of  Clairville  and  his  family.  It  is 
easy  to  tell  a  fib,  but  it  is  very  difficult  to  untell  it.  However,  as  soon  as  you 
have  made  up  your  mind  to  resume  your  normal  position  among  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  I  should  he  greatly  obliged  if  you  would  apprise  me.  I  don't 
wish  to  keep  a  fib  on  my  conscience  a  day  longer  than  may  be  necessary  to 
prevent  the  necessity  of  telling  another. 

"  From  what  you  say  of  Mr.  Bowles's  study  of  Man,  and  his  inborn  talent 
for  that  scientific  investigation,  I  suppose  that  he  is  a  professed  Metaphysi- 
cian, and  I  should  be  glad  of  his  candid  opinion  upon  the  Primary  Basis  of 
Morals,  a  subject  upon  which  I  have  for  three  years  meditated  the  considera- 
tion of  a  critical  paper.  But  having  lately  read  a  controversy  thereon  between 
two  eminent  philosophers,  in  which  each  accuses  the  other  of  not  understand- 
ing him,  I  have  resolved  for  the  present  to  leave  the  Basis  in  its  unsettled 
condition. 

'•  You  rather  alarm  me  when  you  say  you  have  had  a  narrow  escape  from 
marriage.  Should  you,  in  order  to  increase  the  experience  you  set  out  to 
acquire,  decide  on  trying  the  effect  of  a  Mrs.  Chillingly  upon  your  nervous 
system,  it  would  be  well  to  let  me  know  a  little  beforehand,  s-o  I  might  pre- 
pare your  mother's  mind  for  that  event.      Such  household  trifles  are  within 


I70  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

her  special  province;  and  she  would  be  mucli  put  out  if  a  Mrs.  Chillingly 
dro|ipe(l  on  her  unawares. 

*•  This  sul^ject,  h  >\vever,  is  too  serious  to  admit  of  a  jest  even  between  two 
persons  wlio  understand,  so  well  as  you  and  I  do,  the  secret  ciplier  by  whicli 
each  other's  outward  style  of  jest  is  to  be  tjravely  interpreted  into  the  irony 
which  says  one  thing  and  means  another.  My  dear  boy,  you  are  very  young 
— you  are  wandering  about  in  a  very  strange  manner — and  may,  no  douljt, 
meet  with  many  a  pretty  face  by  the  way,  with  whicii  you  may  fancy  that  you 
fall  in  love.  You  cannot  think  me  a  barbarous  tyrant  if  I  ask  you  to  prond-c 
me,  on  your  honor,  that  you  will  not  propose  to  any  young  lady  before  you 
come  first  to  me  and  submit  the  case  to  my  examination  and  approval.  You 
know  me  too  well  to  suppose  that  I  should  unreasonal)ly  withhold  my  con- 
sent if  convinced  that  your  happiness  was  at  stake.  But  while  what  a  young 
man  may  fancy  to  be  love  is  often  a  trivial  incident  in  his  life,  marriage  is  the 
greatest  event  in  it;  if  on  one  side  it  may  involve  his  liaj^piness,  on  the  other 
side  it  may  msure  his  misery.  I)eare-t,  best,  and  oddest  of  sons,  give  me  the 
promise  I  ask,  and  you  will  free  my  breast  fiom  a  terribly  anxious  thought 
which  now  sits  on  it  like  a  nightmare. 

"  Your  recommendation  nf  a  basket-maker  comes  opportunely.  All  such 
matters  go  through  tlie  bailiffs  hands,  and  it  was  but  tlie  other  day  that  Green 
was  complaining  of  the  higli  prices  of  the  man  he  employed  for  hampers  antl 
game  baskets.  Green  shall  write  to  ^owx protei^c. 

"  Keep  me  informed  of  your  proceedings  as  much  as  your  anomalous  char- 
acter will  permit;  so  that  notliing  may  diminish  my  confidence  that  the  man 
who  had  the  honor  to  be  clnistened  Kenclm  will  not  disgrace  his  name,  but 
acquire  the  distinction  denied  to  a  Peter. — Your  affectionate  f.\t!ier." 


CHAPTER  VII. 


Villagers  lie  abed  on  Sundays  later  than  on  work-days, 
and  no  shutter  was  unclosed  in  a  window  of  the  rural  street 
through  which  Kenclm  Chillingly  and  Tom  Bowles  went, 
side  by  side,  in  the  still  soft  air  of  the  Sabbath  morn.  Side 
bv  side  they  went  on,  crossing  tlie  pastoral  glebe-lands, 
where  the  kine  still  drowsily  reclined  under  the  bowery 
sliade  of  glinting  chestnut-leaves  ;  and  diving  tlience  into  a 
narrow  lane  or  by-road,  winding  deep  between  lofty  banks 
all  tangled  with  convolvulus  and  wild-rose  and  honeysuckle. 

They  walked  in  silence,  for  Kenelm,  after  one  or  two  vain 
attempts  at  conversation,  had  the  tact  to  discover  that  his 
companion  was  in  no  mood  for  talk  ;  and  being  himself  one 
of  those  creatures  whose  minds  glide  easily  into  the  dreamy 
monologue  of  reverie,  he  was  not  displeased  to  muse  on 
undisturbed,  drinking  fjuietly  into  his  heart  the  subdued  joy 
of  the  summer  morn,  with  the  freshness  of  its  sparkling 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  \-\ 

dews,  the  wayward  carol  of  its  earliest  birds,  the  serene 
quietude  of  its  limpid  breezy  air.  Only  when  they  came  to 
fresh  turnings  in  the  road  that  led  towards  the  town  to  which 
they  were  bound,  Tom  Bowles  stepped  before  his  companion, 
indicating  the  way  by  a  monosyllable  or  a  gesture.  Thus 
they  journeyed  for  hours,  till  the  sun  attained  power,  and  a 
little  wayside  inn  near  a  hamlet  invited  Kenelm  to  the 
thought  of  rest  and  food. 

"  Tom,"  said  he  then,  rousing  from  his  reverie,  "  what 
do  you  say  to  breakfast  ?  " 

Answered  Tom  sullenly,  "  I  am  not  hungr}^ — but  as  you 
like." 

"  Thank  you,  then  we  will  stop  here  awhile.  I  find  it 
difficult  to  believe  that  you  are  not  hungry,  for  you  are  very 
strong,  and  there  are  two  things  which  generally  accompany 
great  physical  strength  :  the  one  is  a  keen  appetite  ;  the  other 
is — though  you  may  not  suppose  it,  and  it  is  not  commonly 
known — a  melancholic  temperament." 

"Eh!— a  what?" 

"  A  tendency  to  melancholy.  Of  course  you  have  heard 
of  Hercules — you  know  the  saying  '  as  strong  as  Hercules  '  ?  " 

"Yes — of  course." 

"Well,  I  was  first  led  to  the  connection  between  strength, 
appetite,  and  melancholy,  by  reading  in  an  old  author  named 
Plutarch,  that  Hercules  was  among  the  most  notable  instan- 
ces of  melancholy  temperament  which  the  author  was  en- 
abled to  quote.  That  must  have  been  the  traditional  notion  of 
the  Herculean  constitution  ;  and  as  for  appetite,  the  appetite 
of  Hercules  was  a  standard  joke  of  the  comic  writers.  When 
I  read  that  observation  it  set  me  thinking,  being  myself  mel- 
ancholic, and  having  an  exceedingly  good  appetite.  Sure 
enough,  when  I  began  to  collect  evidence,  I  found  that  the 
strongest  men  with  whom  I  made  acquaintance,  including 
prize-fighters  and  Irish  draymen,  were  disposed  to  look  upon 
life  more  on  the  shady  than  the  sunny  side  of  the  way  ;  in 
short,  they  were  melancholic.  But  the  kindness  of  Provi- 
dence allowed  them  to  enjoy  their  meals,  as  you  and  I  arc 
about  to  do." 

In  the  utterance  of  this  extraordinary  crotchet  Kenelm 
had  halted  his  steps  ;  but  now,  striding  briskly  forward,  he 
entered  the  little  inn,  and,  after  a  glance  at  its  larder,  ordered 
the  whole  contents  to  be  brought  out  and  placed  within  a 
honeysuckle  arbor  which  he  spied  in  the  angle  of  a  bowling- 
green  at  the  rear  of  the  house. 


172  KENELM   CIHLLINGLY. 

In  addition  to  the  ordinary  condiments  of  loaf,  and  butter, 
and  eggs,  and  rnill^,  and  tea,  the  board  soon  groaned  beneath 
the  weight  of  pigeon-pie,  cold  ribs  of  beef  and  shoidder  of 
mutton,  remains  of  a  feast  which  the  members  of  a  monthly- 
rustic  club  had  held  there  the  day  before.  Tom  ate  little  at 
first  ;  but  example  is  contagious,  and  gradually  he  vied  with 
his  companion  in  the  diminution  of  the  solid  viands  before 
him.     Then  he  called  for  brandy. 

"  No,"  said  Kcnelm.  "  No,  Tom  ;  you  have  promised  me 
friendship,  and  that  is  not  compatible  with  brandy.  Brandy 
is  the  worst  enemy  a  man  like  you  can  have,  and  would 
make  you  quarrel  even  with  me.  If  you  want  a  stimulus  I 
allow  you  a  pipe  :  I  don't  smoke  myself,  as  a  rule,  but  there 
have  been  times  in  my  life  when  I  required  soothing,  and 
then  I  have  felt  that  a  whiff  of  tobacco  stills  and  softens 
one  like  the  kiss  of  a  little  child.  Bring  this  gentleman  a 
pipe." 

Tom  grunted,  but  took  to  the  pipe  kindly,  and  in  a  few 
minutes,  during  which  Kenelm  left  him  in  silence,  a  lower- 
ing furrow  between  his  brows  smoothed  itself  away. 

Gradually  he  felt  the  sweetening  influences  of  the  day 
and  the  place,  of  the  merry  sunbeams  at  play  amid  the  leaves 
of  the  arbor,  of  the  frank  perfume  of  the  honeysuckle,  of  the 
warble  of  the  birds  before  they  sank  into  the  taciturn  repose 
of  a  summer  noon. 

It  was  with  a  reluctant  sigh  that  he  rose  at  last,  when 
Kenelm  said,  "We  have  yet  far  to  go  :  we  must  push  on." 

The  landlady,  indeed,  had  already  given  them  a  hint  tliat 
she  and  the  family  wanted  to  go  to  church,  and  to  shut  up 
the  house  in  their  absence.  Kenelm  drew  out  his  piu'se,  but 
Tom  did  the  same  with  a  return  of  cloud  cm  his  brow,  and 
Kenelm  saw  that  he  would  be  mortally  offended  if  suffered 
to  be  treated  as  an  inferior  ;  so  each  paid  his  due  share,  and 
the  two  men  resumed  their  wandering.  This  time  it  was 
along  a  by-path  amid  fields,  wliich  was  a  shorter  cut  than 
the  lane  they  had  previously  followed,  to  the  main  road  to 
Luscombe.  They  walked  slowly  till  they  came  to  a  rustic 
foot-bridge  which  spanned  a  gloomy  trout-stream,  not  noisy, 
but  with  a  low,  sweet  murmur,  doubtless  the  same  stream 
beside  which,  many  miles  away,  Kenelm  had  conversed  with 
the  minstrel.  Just  as  they  came  to  this  bridge  there  floated 
to  their  ears  the  distant  sound  of  the  hamlet  church  bell. 

"  Now  let  us  sit  here  awhile  and  listen,"  said  Kenelm, 
seating  himself  on  the  baluster  of  the  bridge.     "  I  see  that 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY.  ^  173 

you  brought  away  your  pipe  from  the  inn,  and  provided  your- 
self with  tobacco  :  refill  the  pipe,  and  listen." 

Tom  half  smiled,  and  obeyed. 

"  O  friend,"  said  Kenelm,  earnestly,  and  after  along  pause 
of  thought,"  do  you  not  feel  what  a  blessed  thing  it  is  in  this 
mortal  life  to  be  ever  and  anon  reminded  that  you  have  a 
soul?" 

Tom,  startled,  withdrew  the  pipe  from  his  lips,  and  mut- 
tered : 

"  Eh  ! " 

Kenelm  continued  : 

"  You  and  I,  Tom,  are  not  so  good  as  we  ought  to  be — of 
that  there  is  no  doubt;  and  good  people  would  say  justly 
that  we  should  now  be  within  yon  church  itself  rather  than 
listening  to  its  bell.  Granted,  my  friend,  granted  ;  but  still 
it  is  something  to  hear  that  bell,  and  to  feel  by  the  train  of 
thought  which  began  in  our  innocent  childhood,  when  we 
said  our  prayers  at  the  knees  of  a  mother,  that  we  were  lift- 
ed beyond  this  visible  nature,  beyond  these  fields,  and  woods, 
and  waters,  in  which,  fair  though  they  be,  you  and  I  miss 
something,  in  which  neither  you  nor  I  are  as  happy  as  the 
kine  in  the  fields,  as  the  birds  on  the  bough,  as  the  fishes  in 
the  water — lifted  to  a  consciousness  of  a  sense  vouchsafed 
to  you  and  to  me,  not  vouchsafed  to  the  kine,  to  the  bird, 
and  the  fish — a  sense  to  comprehend  that  Nature  has  a  God, 
and  Man  has  a  life  hereafter.  The  bell  says  that  to  you  and 
to  me.  Were  that  bell  a  thousand  times  more  musical,  it 
could  not  say  that  to  beast,  bird,  and  fish.  Do  you  under- 
stand me,  Tom  ? " 

Tom  remains  silent  for  a  minute,  and  then  replies : 

"  I  never  thought  of  it  before  ;  but  as  vou  put  it,  I  under- 
stand." 

"  Nature  never  gives  to  a  living  thing  capacities  not  prac- 
tically meant  for  its  benefit  and  use.  If  Nature  gives  to  us 
capacities  to  believe  that  we  have  a  Creator  whom  we  never 
saw,  of  whom  we  have  no  direct  proof,  who  is  kind  and  good 
and  tender  beyond  all  that  we  know  of  kind  and  good  and 
tender  on  earth,  it  is  because  the  endowment  of  capacities  to 
conceive  such  a  Being  must  be  for  our  benefit  and  use  ;  it 
would  not  be  for  our  benefit  and  use  if  it  were  a  lie.  Again, 
if  Nature  has  given  to  us  a  capacity  to  receive  the  notion  that 
we  live  again,  no  matter  whether  some  of  us  refuse  so  to 
believe,  and  argue  against  it, — why,  the  very  capacity  to 
receive  the  idea  (for  unless  we  received  it  we  could  not  argue 


174  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

iigainst  it)  proves  that  it  is  for  our  benefit  and  use  ;  and  if 
there  were  no  such  life  hereafter,  we  should  be  governed  and 
inlhienccd,  arrange  our  modes  of  life,  and  mature  our  civiliza- 
tion, by  obedience  to  a  lie,  which  Nature  falsified  herself  in 
giving  us  the  capacity  to  believe.  You  still  understand 
me  ? " 

"Yes  ;  it  bothers  me  a  little,  for  you  see  I  am  not  a  par- 
son's man  ;  but  I  do  understand." 

"  Then,  my  friend,  study  to  apply — for  it  requires  con- 
stant study — study  to  apply  that  which  you  understand 
to  your  own  case.  You  are  something  more  than  Tom 
Bowles  the  smith  and  doctor  of  horses  ;  something  more 
than  the  magnificent  animal  that  rages  for  its  mate  and 
fights  every  rival :  the  bull  does  that.  You  are  a  soul  en- 
dowed with  the  capacity  to  receive  the  idea  of  a  Creator  so 
divinely  wise  and  great  and  good  that,  though  acting  by  the 
agency  of  general  laws,  He  can  accommodate  them  to  all 
individual  cases,  so  that— taking  into  account  the  life  here- 
after, which  He  grants  to  you  the  capacity  to  believe — all 
that  troubles  you  now  will  be  proved  to  you  wise  and  great 
and  good  either  in  this  life  or  the  other.  Lav  that  truth  to 
your  heart,  friend,  now— before  the  bell  stops  ringing  ;  re- 
call it  every  time  you  hear  the  church  bell  ring  again.  And 
oh,  Tom,  you  have  such  a  noble  nature " 

"I — I  !  don't  jeer  me — don't." 

"Such  a  noble  nature  ;  for  you  can  love  so  passionately, 
you  can  war  so  fiercely,  and  yet,  when  convinced  that  your 
love  would  be  misery  to  her  you  love,  can  resign  it  ;  and  yet, 
when  beaten  in  your  war,  can  so  forgive  your  victor  that  you 
arc  walking  in  this  solitude  with  him  as  a  friend,  knowing 
that  you  have  but  to  drop  a  foot  behind  him  in  order  to  take 
his  life  in  an  unguarded  moment  ;  and  rather  than  take  his 
life,  you  would  defend  it  against  an  army.  Do  you  think  I 
am  so  dull  as  not  to  see  all  that  ?  and  is  not  all  that  a  noble 
nature  ?" 

Tom  Bowles  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  his 
broad  breast  heaved. 

"  Well,  then,  to  that  noble  nature  I  now  trust.  I  myself 
have  done  little  good  in  life.  I  may  never  do  much  ;  but  let 
me  think  that  I  have  not  crossed  your  life  in  vain  for  you 
and  for  those  whom  your  life  can  color  for  good  or  for  bad. 
As  you  are  strong,  be  gentle  ;  as  you  can  love  one,  be  kind  to 
all  ;  as  you  have  so  much  that  is  grand  as  Man — that  is,  the 
highest  of  God's  works  on  earth, — let   all  your  acts  attach 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  175 

your  manhood  to  the  idea  of  Him  to  whom  the  voice  of  the 
bell  appeals.  Ah  !  the  bell  is  hushed  ;  but  not  your  heart, 
Tom, — that  speaks  still." 

Tom  was  weeping  like  a  child. 


CHAPTER   VHI. 


Now  when  out  two  travellers  resumed  their  journey  the 
relationship  between  them  had  undergone  a  change  ;  nay, 
you  might  have  said  that  their  characters  were  also  changed. 
For  Tom  found  liimself  pouring  out  his  turbulent  heart  to 
Kenelm,  confiding  to  this  philosophical  scoffer  at  love  all 
the  passionate  humanities  of  love — its  hope,  its  anguish,  its 
jealousy,  its  wrath— the  all  that  links  the  gentlest  of  emotions 
to  tragedy  and  terror.  And  Kenelm,  listening  tenderly,  with 
softened  eyes,  uttered  not  one  cynic  word — nay,  not  one  play- 
ful jest.  He  felt  that  the  gravity  of  all  he  heard  was  too 
solemn  for  mockery,  too  deep  even  for  comfort.  True  love 
of  this  sort  was  a  thing  he  had  never  known,  never  wished 
to  know,  never  thought  he  could  know,  but  he  sympathized 
in  it  not  the  less.  Strange,  indeed,  how  much  we  do  sym- 
pathize, on  the  stage,  for  instance,  or  in  a  book,  with  pas- 
sions that  have  never  agitated  ourselves.  Had  Kenelm  jested, 
or  reasoned,  or  preached,  Tom  would  have  shrunk  at  once 
into  dreary  silence  ;  but  Kenelm  said  nothing,  save  now  and 
then,  as  he  rested  his  arm,  brother-like,  on  the  strong  man's 
shoulder,  he  murmured,  "  poor  fellow  !  "  So,  then,  when  Tom 
had  finished  his  confessions,  he  felt  wondrously  relieved  and 
comforted.  He  had  cleansed  his  bosom  of  the  perilous  stuff 
that  weighed  upon  the  heart. 

Was  this  good  result  effected  by  Kenelm's  artful  diplo- 
macy, or  by  that  insight  into  human  passions  vouchsafed, 
unconsciously  to  himself,  by  gleams  or  in  flashes,  to  this 
strange  man  who  surveyed  the  objects  and  pursuits  of  his 
fellows  with  a  yearning  desire  to  share  them,  murmuring  to 
himself,  "I  cannot— I  do  not  stand  in  this  world;  like  a 
ghost  I  glide  beside  it,  and  look  on  "  ? 

Thus  the  two  men  continued  their  way  slowly,  amid  soft 
pastures  and  yellowing  corn-fields,  out  at  length  into  the 
dusty  thoroughfares  of  the  main  road.  That  gained,  their 
talk  insensibly  changed  its  tone— it  became  more  common- 


176  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

place,  and  Kcnclm  permitted  liimself  the  license  of  those 
crotcliets  by  which  he  extracted  a  sort  of  quaint  pleasantry 
out  of  commonplace  itself  ;  so  that  from  time  to  time  Tom 
was  startled  into  the  mirth  of  laughter.  This  big  fellow  had 
one  very  agreeable  gift,  which  is  only  granted,  I  think,  to 
men  of  genuine  character  and  affectionate  dispositions— a 
spontaneous  and  sweet  laugh,  manly  and  frank,  but  not 
boisterous,  as  you  might  have  supposed  it  would  be.  But 
that  sort  of  laugh  had  not  before  come  from  his  lips,  since 
the  day  on  which  his  love  for  Jessie  Wiles  had  made  him  at 
war  with  himself  and  the  world. 

The  sun  was  setting  when  from  the  brow  of  a  hill  they 
beheld  the  spires  of  Luscombe,  imbedded  amid  the  level 
meadows  that  stretched  below,  watered  by  the  same  stream 
that  had  wound  along  their  more  rural  pathway,  but  which 
now  expanded  into  stately  width,  and  needed,  to  span  it,  a 
miglity  bridge  fit  for  the  C(Mivenience  of  civilized  traffic. 
The  town  seemed  near,  but  it  was  full  two  miles  off  byroad. 

"  There  is  a  short  cut  across  the  fields  beyond  that  stile, 
which  leads  straight  to  my  uncle's  house,"  said  Tom  ;  "and 
I  daresay,  sir,  that  you  will  be  glad  to  escape  the  dirty 
suburb  by  which  the  road  passes  before  we  get  into  the 
town." 

"  A  good  thought,  Tom.  It  is  very  odd  that  fine  towns 
always  are  approached  by  dirty  suburbs — a  covert  symbolical 
satire,  perhaps,  on  the  ways  to  success  in  fine  towns.  Avarice 
or  ambition  go  through  very  mean  little  streets  before  they 
gain  the  place  which  they  jostle  the  crowd  to  win — in  the 
Townhall  or  on  'Change.  Happy  the  man  who,  like  you, 
Tom,  finds  that  there  is  a  shorter  and  a  cleaner  and  a  pleas- 
anter  way  to  goal  or  to  resting-place  than  that  througli  the 
dirty  suburbs  !" 

They  met  but  few  passengers  on  their  path  through  the 
fields — a  respectable,  staid,  elderly  couple,  who  had  the  air 
of  a  Dissenting  minister  and  his  wife  ;  a  girl  of  fourteen 
leading  a  little  boy  seven  years  younger  by  the  hand  ;  a  pair 
of  lovers,  evidently  lovers  at  least  to  the  eye  of  Tom  Bowles 
— for,  on  regarding  them  as  they  passed  unheeding  him,  he 
winced,  and  his  face  changed.  Even  after  they  had  passed, 
Kenelm  saw  on  the  face  that  pain  lingered  there  ;  the  lips 
were  tightly  compressed,  and  their  corners  gloomily  drawn 
down. 

Just  at  this  moment  a  dog  rushed  towards  them  with  a 
short  quick  bark— a  Pomeranian  dog  with  pointed  nose  and 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY.  177 

pricked  ears.  It  hushed  its  bark  as  it  neared  Kenehii, 
sniffed  his  trousers,  and  wagged  its  tail. 

"  By  the  sacred  Nine,"  cried  Kenelm,  "  thou  art  tlie  dog 
Avitli  tlie  tin  tray  !  wliere  is  tliy  master  ?  " 

The  dog  seemed  to  understand  the  question,  for  it  turned 
its  head  significantly,  and  Kenelm  saw,  seated  under  a  lime- 
tree,  at  a  good  distance  from  the  path,  a  man,  with  book  in 
hand,  evidently  employed  in  sketching. 

"  Come  this  way,"  he  said  to  Tom  ;  "  I  recognize  an  ac- 
quaintance. You  will  like  him."  Tom  desired  no  new  ac- 
quaintance at  that  moment,  but  he  followed  Kenelm  sub- 
missively. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


"You  see  we  are  fated  to  meet  again,"  said  Kenelm, 
stretching  himself  at  his  ease  beside  the  Wandering  Min- 
strel, and  motioning  Tom  to  do  the  same.  "  But  you  seem 
to  add  the  accomplishment  of  drawing  to  that  of  verse-mak- 
ing !  You  sketch  from  what  you  call  Nature  ?  " 
"  From  what  I  call  Nature  !  yes,  sometimes." 
"  And  do  you  not  find  in  drawing,  as  in  verse-making, 
the  truth  that  I  have  before  sought  to  din  into  your  reluc- 
tant ears — viz.,  that  Nature  has  no  voice  except  that  which 
man  breathes  into  her  out  of  his  mind  ?  I  would  lay  a 
wager  that  the  sketch  you  are  now  taking  is  rather  an  at- 
tempt to  make  her  embody  some  thought  of  yoiu-  own,  than 
to  present  her  outlines  as  they  appear  to  any  other  observer. 
Permit  me  to  judge  for  myself."  And  he  bent  over  the 
sketch-book.  It  is  often  difficult  for  one  who  is  not  him- 
self an  artist  nor  a  connoisseur,  to  judge  whether  the  pen- 
cilled jottings  in  an  impromptu  sketch  are  by  the  hand  of  a 
professed  master  or  a  mere  amateur.  Kenelm  was  neither 
artist  nor  connoisseur,  but  the  mere  pencil-work  seemed  to 
him  much  what  might  be  expected  from  any  man  with  an 
accurate  eye,  who  had  taken  a  certain  number  of  lessons 
from  a  good  drawing-master.  It  was  enough  for  him,  how- 
ever, that  it  furnished  an  illustration  of  his  own  theory.  "  I 
was  right,"  he  cried,  triumphantly.  "  From  this  height 
there  is  a  beautiful  view,  as  it  presents  itself  to  me  ;  a  beau- 
tiful view  of  the  town,  its  meadows,  its  river,  harmonized  by 
8* 


1 73  KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY. 

the  sunset  ;  for  sunset,  like  gilding,  unites  conflicting  col- 
ors, and  softens  them  in  uniting.  But  I  see  nothing  of  that 
view  in  your  sketch.     What  I  do  see  is  to  me  mysterious." 

"  The  view  you  suggest,"  said  the  minstrel,  "  is  no  doubt 
very  fine,  but  it  is  for  a  Turner  or  a  Claude  to  treat  it.  My 
grasp  is  not  wide  enough  for  such  a  landscape." 

*'  I  see  indeed  in  your  sketch  but  one  figure,  a  child." 

"Hist !  there  she  stands.  Hist !  while  I  put  in  this  last 
touch." 

Kenelm  strained  his  sight,  and  saw  far  ofif  a  solitary  little 
girl,  who  was  tossing  something  in  the  air  (he  could  not 
distinguish  what),  and  catching  it  as  it  fell.  She  seemed 
standing  on  the  very  verge  of  the  upland,  backed  by  rose- 
clouds  gathered  round  the  setting  sun  ;  below  lay  in  con- 
fused outlines  the  great  town.  In  the  sketch  those  outlines 
seemed  infinitely  more  confused,  being  only  indicated  by  a 
few  bold  strokes  ;  but  the  figure  and  face  of  the  child  were 
distinct  and  lovely.  There  was  an  ineffable  sentiment  in 
her  solitude,  there  was  a  depth  of  quiet  enjoyment  in  her 
mirthful  play,  and  in  her  upturned  eyes. 

"  But  at  that  distance,"  asked  Kenelm,  when  the  wan- 
derer had  finished  his  last  touch,  and,  after  contemplating 
it,  silently  closed  his  book,  and  turned  round  with  a  genial 
smile — "but  at  that  distance,  how  can  you  distinguish  the 
girl's  face  ?  How  can  you  discover  that  the  dim  object  she 
has  just  thrown  up  and  recaught  is  a  ball  made  of  flowers  ? 
Do  you  know  the  child  ?  " 

"I  never  saw  her  before  this  evening;  but  as  I  was 
seated  here  she  was  straying  around  me  alone,  weaving  into 
chains  some  wild-tiowers  which  she  had  gathered  by  the 
hedgerows  yonder,  next  the  high-road  ;  and  as  she  strung 
them  she  was  chanting  to  herself  some  pretty  nursery 
rhymes.  You  can  well  understand  that  when  I  heard  her 
thus  chanting  I  became  interested,  and  as  she  came  near 
me  I  spoke  to  her,  and  we  soon  made  friends.  She  told  me 
she  was  an  orphan,  and  brought  up  by  a  very  old  man  dis- 
tantly related  to  her,  who  had  been  in  some  small  trade, 
and  now  lived  in  a  crowded  lane  in  the  heart  of  the  town. 
He  was  very  kind  to  her,  and,  being  confined  himself  to  the 
house  by  age  or  ailment,  he  sent  her  out  to  play  in  the 
fields  on  summer  Sundays.  She  had  no  companions  of  her, 
own  age.  She  said  she  did  not  like  the  other  little  girls  in 
the  lane  ;  and  the  only  little  girl  she  liked  at  school  had  a 
grander  station  in  life,  and  was  not  allowed  to  piay  with  her, 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  J79 

SO  she  came  out  to  play  alone  ;  and  as  long  as  the  sun  shines 
and  the  flowers  bloom,  she  says  she  never  wants  other  society." 

"  Tom,  do  you  hear  that  ?  As  you  will  be  residing  in 
Luscombe,  find  out  this  strange  little  girl,  and  be  kind  to 
her,  Tom,  for  my  sake." 

Tom  put  his  large  hand  upon  Kenelm's,  making  no  other 
answer  ;  but  he  looked  hard  at  the  minstrel,  recognized  the 
genial  charm  of  his  voice  and  face,  and  slid  along  the  grass 
nearer  to  him. 

The  minstrel  continued  :  "While  the  child  was  talking 
to  me  I  mechanically  took  the  flower-chains  from  her  hand, 
and,  not  thinking  what  I  was  about,  gathered  them  up  into 
a  ball.  Suddenly  she  saw  what  I  had  done,  and  instead  of 
scolding  me  for  spoiling  her  pretty  chains,  which  I  richly 
deserved,  was  delighted  to  find  I  had  twisted  them  into  a 
new  plaything.  She  ran  off  with  the  ball,  tossing  it  about 
till,  excited  with  her  own  joy,  she  got  to  the  brow  of  the 
hill,  and  I  began  my  sketch." 

"  Is  that  charming  face  you  hav^e  drawn  like  hers  ?  " 

"  No  ;  only  in  part.  I  was  thinking  of  another  face 
while  I  sketched,  but  it  is  not  like  that  either  ;  in  fact,  it  is 
one  of  those  patchworks  which  we  call  '  fancy  heads,'  and  I 
meant  it  to  be  another  version  of  a  thought  that  I  had  just 
put  into  rhyme,  when  the  child  came  across  me." 

"  May  we  hear  the  rhyme  ?  " 

"I  fear  that  if  it  did  not  bore  yourself  it  would  bore 
your  friend." 

"I  am  sure  not.     Tom,  do  you  sing  ?" 

"Well,  I  have  sung,"  said  Tom,  hanging  his  head  sheep- 
ishly, "  and  I  should  like  to  hear  this  gentleman." 

"  But  I  do  not  know  these  verses,  just  made,  well  enough 
to  sing  them  ;  it  is  enough  if  I  can  recall  them  well  enough 
to  recite."  Here  the  minstrel  paused  a  minute  or  so  as  if 
for  recollection,  and  then,  in  the  sweet  clear  tones,  and  the 
rare  purity  of  enunciation  which  characterized  his  utterance, 
whether  in  recital  or  song,  gave  to  the  following  verses 
a  touching  and  a  varied  expression  which  no  one  could  dis- 
cover in  merely  reading  them. 

THE   FLOWER-GIRL  BY  THE   CROSSING. 

By  the  inuddy  crossing  in  the  crowded  streets 

Stands  a  little  maid  with  her  basket  full  of  posies, 

Proffering  all  who  pass  her  choice  of  knitted  sweets, 

Tempting  Age  with  heart'sease,  courting  Youth  with  roses. 


l8o  KENELIM   CHILLINGLY. 

Age  disdains  tlie  heair.s-ease. 

Love  rejects  the  roses; 
London  life  is  busy — 
Who  can  stop  for  posies  ? 

One  man  is  too  grave,  another  is  too  gay  — 

This  man  has  his  hot-house,  that  man  not  a  penny ; 

Flowerets  too  are  common  in  the  month  of  May, 
And  the  things  most  common  least  attract  the  many. 

Ill  on  London  crossings 

Fares  the  sale  of  posies ; 
Age  disdains  the  heart's- ease, 

Youth  rejects  the  roses. 

When  the  verse-maker  had  done,  lie  did  not  pause  for  ap- 
probation, nor  look  modestly  down,  as  do  most  people  who 
recite  their  own  verses,  but,  unaffectedly  tliinking  much 
more  of  his  art  than  his  audience,  hurried  on  somewhat  dis- 
consolately : 

*'  I  see  with  great  grief  that  I  am  better  at  sketching 
than  rhyming.  Can  you "  (appealing  to  Kenelm)  "even 
comprehend  what  I  mean  by  the  verses  ?" 

Kenelm. — ''  Do  you  comprehend,  Tom  ?" 

Tom  (in  a  whisper). — "  No." 

Kenelm. — "  I  presume  that  by  his  flower-girl  our  friend 
means  to  represent  not  only  Poetry,  but  a  poetry  like  his 
own,  which  is  not  at  all  the  sort  of  poetry  now  in  fashion. 
I,  however,  expand  his  meaning,  and  by  his  flower-girl  I  un- 
derstand any  image  of  natural  truth  and  beauty  for  which, 
when  we  are  living  the  artificial  life  of  crow^ded  streets,  we 
are  too  busy  to  give  a  penny." 

"Take  it  as  you  please,"  said  the  minstrel,  smiling  and 
sighing  at  the  same  time;  "but  I  have  not  exi)ressed  in 
words  that  which  I  did  mean  half  so  well  as  I  have  ex- 
pressed it  in  my  sketch-book." 

"Ah  !  and  how?"  asked  Kenelm. 

"The  Image  of  my  tliouglit  in  the  sketch,  be  it  Poetry 
or  whatever  you  prefer  to  call  it,  does  not  stand  forlorn  in 
the  crowded  streets — the  child  stands  on  tlie  brow  of  the 
green  hill,  witli  the  city  stretched  in  confused  fragments  be- 
low, and,  thouglitless  of  pennies  and  passers-by,  she  is  play- 
ing witli  the  flowers  she  has  gathered — but  in  play  casting 
them  heavenward,  and  fuHowing  them  with  heavenward 
eyes." 

"Good!"  muttered  Kenelm — "good!"  and  then,  after 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  181 

a  long  pause,  he  added,  in  a  still  lower  mutter,  "  Pardon  me 
that  remark  of  mine  the  other  day  about  a  beef-steak.  But 
own  that  I  am  right — what  you  call  a  sketch  from  Nature  is 
but  a  sketch  of  your  own  thought." 


CHAPTER  X. 


The  child  with  the  flower-ball  had  vanished  from  the 
brow  of  the  hill  ;  sinking  down  amid  the  streets  below,  the 
rose-clouds  had  faded  from  the  horizon  ;  and  night  was 
closing  round,  as  tlie  three  men  entered  the  thick  of  the 
town.  Tom  pressed  Kenelm  to  accompany  him  to  his 
imcle's,  promising  him  a  hearty  welcome  and  bed  and 
board,  but  Kenelm  declined.  He  entertained  a  strong  per- 
suasion that  it  would  be  better  for  the  desired  effect  on 
Tom's  mind  tliat  he  should  be  left  alone  with  his  relations 
that  night,  but  proposed  that  they  should  spend  the  next 
day  together,  and  agreed  to  call  at  the  veterinary  surgeon's 
in  the  morning. 

When  Tom  quitted  them  at  his  uncle's  door,  Kenelm 
said  to  the  minstrel,  "  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  some  inn 
— may  I  accompany  you  ?  We  can  sup  together,  and  I 
should  like  to  hear  you  talk  upon  poetry  and  Nature." 

"  You  flatter  me  much  ;  but  I  have  friends  in  the  town, 
with  whom  I  lodge,  and  they  are  expecting  me.  Do  you 
not  observe  that  I  have  changed  my  dress  ?  I  am  not 
known  here  as  the  'Wandering  Minstrel.'  " 

Kenelm  glanced  at  the  man's  attire,  and  for  the  first  time 
observed  the  change.  It  was  still  picturesque  in  its  way, 
but  it  was  such  as  gentlemen  of  the  highest  rank  frequently 
wear  in  the  country — the  knickerbocker  costume — very 
neat,  very  new,  and  complete,  to  the  square-toed  shoes  with 
their  latchets  and  buckles. 

"  I  fear,"  said  Kenelm,  gravely,  "  that  your  change  of 
dress  betokens  the  neighborhood  of  those  pretty  girls  of 
whom  you  spoke  in  an  earlier  meeting.  According  to  the 
Darwinian  doctrine  of  selection,  fine  plumage  goes  far  in 
deciding  the  preference  of  Jenny  Wren  and  her  sex,  only 
we  are  told  that  fine-feathered  birds  are  very  seldom  song- 
sters as  vv-ell.  It  is  rather  unfair  to  rivals  when  you  unite 
both  attractions."  « 


l82  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

The  minstrel  laughed.  "  There  is  but  one  girl  in  my 
friend's  Iiouse — liis  niece  ;  she  is  very  plain,  and  only  thir- 
teen. But  to  me  the  society  of  women,  whether  ugly  or 
pretty,  is  an  absolute  necessity  ;  and  I  have  been  trudging 
witliout  it  for  so  many  days  that  I  can  scarcely  tell  you  how 
my  thoughts  seemed  to  shake  off  the  dust  of  travel  when  I 
found  myself  again  in  the  presence  of " 

"Petticoat  interest,"  interrupted  Kenelm.  "Take  care 
of  yourself.  My  poor  friend  witli  whom  you  found  me  is  a 
grave  warning  against  petticoat  interest,  from  whicli  I  hoj^e 
to  profit.  He  is  passing  through  a  great  sorrow  ;  it  might 
have  been  worse  than  sorrow.  My  friend  is  going  to  stay 
in  this  town.  If  you  are  staying  here  too,  pray  let  him  see 
something  of  you.  It  will  do  him  a  wondrous  good  if  you 
can  beguile  him  from  this  real  life  into  the  gardens  of  poet- 
land  ;  but  do  not  sing  nor  talk  of  love  to  him." 

"  I  honor  all  lovers,"  said  the  minstrel,  with  real  tender- 
ness in  his  tone,  "and  would  willingly  serve  to  cheer  or 
comfort  your  friend,  if  I  could  ;  but  I  am  bound  elsewhere, 
and  must  leave  Lviscombe,  which  I  visit  on  business — 
money  business — the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  So,  too,  must  I.  At  least  give  us  both  some  hours  of 
your  time  to-morrow." 

"  Certainly  ;  from  twelve  to  sunset  I  shall  be  roving 
about — a  mere  idler.  If  you  will  both  come  with  me,  it  will 
be  a  great  pleasure  to  myself.  Agreed  !  Well,  then,  I  will 
call  at  your  inn  to-morrow  at  twelve  ;  and  I  recommend  for 
your  inn  the  one  facing  us — the  Golden  Lamb.  I  have 
heard  it  recommended  for  the  attributes  of  civil  people  and 
good  fare." 

Kenelm  felt  that  he  here  received  his  co/igc',  and  well 
comprehended  the  fact  that  the  minstrel,  desiring  to  pre- 
serve the  secret  of  his  name,  did  not  give  the  address  of  the 
family  with  whom  he  was  a  guest. 

"But  one  word  more,"  said  Kenelm.  "Your  host  or 
hostess,  if  resident  here,  can  no  doubt,  from  your  descrip- 
tion of  the  little  girl  and  the  old  man  her  protector,  learn 
the  child's  address.  If  so,  I  should  like  my  companion  to 
make  friends  with  her.  Petticoat  interest  there  at  least  will 
be  innocent  and  safe.  And  I  know  nothing  so  likely  to 
keep  a  big,  passionate  heart  like  Tom's,  now  aching  with  a 
horrible  void,  occupied  and  softened,  and  turned  to  direc- 
tions pure  and  gentle,  as  an  affectionate  interest  in  a  little 
child."  • 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  133 

The  minstrel  changed  color — he  even  started. 

"  Sir,  are  you  a  wizard,  that  you  say  that  to  me  ?" 

"  I  am  not  a  wizard,  but  I  guess  from  your  question  that 
you  liave  a  little  child  of  your  own.  So  nuich  the  better  ; 
the  child  may  keep  you  out  of  much  mischief,  Remember 
the  little  child.     Good-evening." 

Kenelm  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  Golden  Lamb,  en- 
gaged his  room,  made  his  ablutions,  ordered,  and,  with  his 
usual  zest,  partook  of,  his  evening  meal  ;  and  then,  feeling 
the  pressure  of  that  melancholic  temperament  which  he  so 
strangely  associated  with  Herculean  constitutions,  roused 
himself  up,  and,  seeking  a  distraction  from  thought,  saun- 
tered forth  into  the  gas-lit  streets. 

It  was  a  large,  handsome  town — handsomer  than  Tor- 
Hadham,  on  account  of  its  site  in  a  valley  surrounded  by 
wooded  hills  and  watered  by  the  fair  stream  whose  windings 
we  have  seen  as  a  brook — handsomer,  also,  because  it  boasted 
a  fair  cathedral,  well  cleared  to  the  sight,  and  surrounded 
by  venerable  old  houses,  the  residences  of  the  clergy,  or  of 
the  quiet  lay  gentry  with  mediaeval  taste.  The  main  street 
was  thronged  with  passengers — some  soberly  returning 
home  from  the  evening  service — some,  the  younger,  linger- 
ing in  pleasant  promenade  with  their  sweethearts  or  fami- 
lies, or  arm  in  arm  with  each  other  and  having  the  air  of 
bachelors  or  maidens  unattached.  Through  this  street  Ken- 
elm  passed  with  inattentive  eye.  A  turn  to  the  right  took 
him  towards  the  cathedral  and  its  surroundings.  There  all 
was  solitary.  The  solitude  pleased  him,  and  he  lingered 
long,  gazing  on  the  noble  church  lifting  its  spires  and  tur- 
rets into  the  deep-blue  starry  air. 

Musingly,  then,  he  strayed  on,  entering  a  labyrinth  of 
gloomy  lanes,  in  which,  though  the  shops  were  closed,  many 
a  door  stood  open,  with  men  of  the  working  class  lolling 
against  the  threshold,  idly  smoking  their  pipes,  or  w^omen 
seated  on  the  door-steps  gossiping,  while  noisy  children 
were  playing  or  quarrelling  in  the  kennel.  The  whole  did 
not  present  the  indolent  side  of  an  English  Sabbath  in  tl:c 
pleasantest  and  rosiest  point  of  view.  Somewhat  quicken- 
ing his  steps,  he  entered  a  broader  street,  attracted  to  it  in- 
voluntarily by  a  bright  light  in  the  centre.  On  nearing  the 
light  he  found  that  it  shone  forth  from  a  gin-palace,  of 
which  the  mahogany  doors  opened  and  shut  momently,  ns 
customers  went  in  and  out.  It  was  the  handsomest  build- 
ing he  had  seen  in  his  walk,  next  to  that  of  the  cathedral. 


1 84  KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY. 

"  The  new  civilization  versus  the  old,"  miirmiircd  Kcnelm. 
As  he  so  imirmiired,  a  hand  was  laid  on  liis  arm  with  a  sort 
of  timid  impudence.  He  looked  down,  and  saw  a  young 
face,  but  it  had  survived  the  look  of  youth  ;  it  was  worn 
and  hard,  and  the  bloom  on  it  was  not  that  of  Nature's  giv- 
ing.     "  Are  you  kind  to-night  ?"  asked  a  husky  voice. 

"  Kind  !  "  said  Kenelm,  with  mournful  tones  and  softened 
eyes — "  kind  !  Alas,  my  poor  sister  mortal  !  if  pity  be 
kindness,  who  can  see  you  and  not  be  kind  ?" 

The  girl  released  his  arm,  and  he  walked  on.  She  stood 
some  moments  gazing  after  him  till  out  of  sight,  then  she 
drew  her  hand  suddenly  across  her  eyes,  and,  retracing  her 
steps,  was,  in  her  turn,  caught  hold  of  by  a  rougher  hand 
than  hers,  as  she  passed  the  gin-palace.  She  shook  off  the 
grasp  with  a  passionate  scorn,  and  went  straight  home. 
Home  !  is  that  the  right  word  }     Poor  sister  mortal ! 


CHAPTER    XI. 


And  now  Kenelm  found  himself  at  the  extremity  of  the 
town,  and  on  the  banks  of  the  river.  Small  squalid  houses 
still  lined  the  bank  for  some  way,  till,  nearing  the  bridge, 
they  abru})tly  ceased,  and  he  passed  through  a  broad  square 
again  into  the  main  street.  On  the  other  side  of  the  street 
there  was  a  row  of  villa-like  mansions,  with  gardens  stretch- 
ing towards  the  river. 

All  around  in  the  thoroughfare  was  silent  and  deserted. 
By  this  time  the  passengers  had  gone  hcniie.  The  scent  of 
night-flowers  from  the  villa  gardens  came  sweet  on  tlie  star- 
lit air.  Kenelm  paused  to  inhale  it,  and  then  lifting  his 
eyes,  hitherto  downcast,  as  are  the  eyes  of  men  in  medita- 
tive moods,  he  beheld,  on  the  balcony  of  the  nearest  villa,  a 
group  of  well-dressed  persons.  The  balcony  was  unusually 
wide  and  spacious.  On  it  was  a  small  round  table,  on  which 
were  placed  wine  and  fruits.  Three  ladies  were  seated 
round  tlie  table  on  wire-work  chairs,  and,  on  the  side  near- 
est to  Kenelm,  one  man.  In  that  man,  now  slightly  turning 
his  profile,  as  if  to  look  towards  the  river,  Kenelm  recognized 
the  minstrel.  He  was  still  in  his  picturesque  knickerbocker 
dress,  and  his  clear-cut  features,  with  the  clustering  curls 
of  hair,  and  Rubens-like  hue  and  shape  of  beard,  had  more 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  185 

than  their  usual  beauty,  softened  in  the  light  of  skies  to 
which  tlie  moon,  just  risen,  added  deeper  and  fuller  radi- 
ance. The  ladies  were  in  evening  dress,  but  Kenelm  could 
not  distinguish  their  faces,  hidden  behind  the  minstrel.  He 
moved  softly  across  the  street,  and  took  his  stand  behind  a 
buttress  in  the  low  wall  of  the  garden,  from  which  he  could 
have  full  view  of  the  balcony,  unseen  himself.  In  this 
watch  he  had  no  other  object  than  that  of  a  vague  pleasure. 
The  whole  grouping  had  in  it  a  kind  of  scenic  romance,  and 
he  stopped  as  one  stops  before  a  picture. 

He  then  saw  that  of  the  three  ladies  one  was  old  ;  an- 
other was  a  slight  girl,  of  the  age  of  twelve  or  thirteen  ;  the 
third  appeared  to  be  somewhere  about  seven-  or  eight-and- 
twenty.  She  was  dressed  with  more  elegance  than  the 
others.  On  her  neck,  only  partially  veiled  by  a  thin  scarf, 
there  was  the  glitter  of  jewels  ;  and,  as  she  now  turned  her 
full  face  towards  the  moon,  Kenehn  saw  that  she  was  very 
handsome — a  striking  kind  of  beauty,  calculated  to  fascinate 
a  poet  or  an  artist — not  unlikg  Raffaele's  Fornarina,  dark, 
with  warm  tints. 

Now  there  appeared  at  the  open  window  a  stout,  burly, 
middle-aged  gentleman,  looking  every  inch  of  him  a  family 
man,  a  moneyed  man,  sleek  and  prosperous.  He  was  bald, 
fresh-colored,  and  with  light  whiskers. 

"  Holloa,"  he  said,  in  an  accent  very  slightly  foreign, 
and  with  a  loud  clear  voice,  which  Kenelm  heard  distinctly, 
"  is  it  not  time  for  you  to  come  in  ? " 

"  Don't  be  so  tiresome,  Fritz,"  said  the  handsome  lady, 
half  petulantly,  half  playfully,  in  the  way  ladies  address 
the  tiresome  spouses  whom  they  lord  it  over.  "  Your  friend 
has  been  sulking  the  whole  evening,  and  is  only  just  begin- 
ning to  be  pleasant  as  the  moon  rises." 

"The  moon  has  a  good  effect  on  poets  and  other  mad 
folks,  I  daresay,"  said  the  bald  man,  with  a  good-humored 
laugh.  "  But  I  can't  have  my  little  niece  laid  up  again  just 
as  she  is  on  the  mend.     Annie,  come  in." 

The  girl  obeyed  reluctantly.     The  old  lady  rose  too. 

"Ah,  mother,  you  are  wise,"  said  the  bald  man  ;  "and 
a  game  at  euchre  is  safer  than  poetizing  in  night  air."  He 
wound  his  arm  around  the  old  lady  with  a  careful  fondness, 
for  she  moved  with  some  difficulty,  as  if  rather  lame.  "As 
for  you  two  sentimentalists  and  moon-gazers,  I  give  you  ten 
minutes'  law — not  more,  mind." 

"  Tyrant  !  "  said  the  minstrel. 


iS6  KEN  ELM   CIIILLINCLY. 

The  balcony  now  only  held  two  forms — the  minstrel  and 
the  handsome  lady.  The  window  was  closed,  and  partially 
veiled  by  muslin  draperies,  but  Kenelm  caught  glimpses  of 
the  room  within.  lie  could  see  that  the  room,  lit  by  a  lamp 
on  tlie  centre-table,  and  candles  elsewhere,  was  decorated 
and  fitted  up  with  cost,  and  in  a  taste  nut  English.  He 
could  see,  for  instance,  that  the  ceiling  was  painted,  and  the 
walls  Avere  not  papered,  but  painted  in  panels  between  ara- 
besque pilasters. 

"They  are  foreigners,"  thought  Kcnclm,  "though  the 
man  does  speak  English  so  well.  That  accounts  for  playing 
euchre  of  a  Sunday  evening,  as  if  there  were  no  harm  in  it. 
Euchre  is  an  American  game.  The  man  is  called  Fritz.  Ah ! 
I  guess — Germans  who  have  lived  a  good  deal  in  America  ; 
and  the  verse-maker  said  he  was  at  Luscombe  on  pecuniary 
business.  Doubtless  his  host  is  a  merchant,  and  the  verse- 
maker  in  some  commercial  firm.  That  accounts  for  his  con- 
cealment of  name,  and  fear  of  its  being  known  that  he  vvas 
addicted,  in  liis  holiday,  to  fcnstes  and  habits  so  opposed  to 
his  calling." 

While  he  was  thus  thinking,  the  lady  had  drawn  her 
chair  close  to  the  minstrel,  and  was  speaking  to  him  with 
evident  earnestness,  but  in  tones  too  low  for  Kenelm  to 
hear.  Still  it  seemed  to  him,  by  her  manner  and  by  the 
man's  look,  as  if  she  were  speaking  in  some  sort  of  reproach, 
which  he  sought  to  deprecate.  Then  he  spoke,  also  in  a 
whisper,  and  she  averted  her  face  for  a  moment — then  she 
held  out  her  hand,  and  the  minstrel  kissed  it.  Certainly, 
thus  seen,  the  two  miglit  well  be  taken  for  lovers  ;  and  the 
soft  night,  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers,  silence  and  solitude, 
stars  and  moonlight,  all  girt  them  as  Avith  an  atmosphere  of 
love.  Presently  tlie  man  rose  and  leaned  over  the  balcony, 
propping  his  cheek  on  his  hand,  and  gazing  on  the  river. 
1  he  lady  rose  too,  and  also  leaned  over  tlie  balustrade,  her 
dark  hair  almost  touching  the  auburn  locks  of  her  com- 
panion. 

Kenelm  sighed.  Was  it  from  envy,  from  pity,  from  fear  ? 
I  know  not  ;  but  he  sighed. 

After  a  brief  pause,  the  lady  said,  still  in  low  tones,  but 
not  too  low  this  time  to  escape  Kenelm's  fine  sense  of  hearing: 

"Tell  me  those  verses  again.  I  must  remember  every 
word  of  them  when  vou  arc  gone." 

The  man  shook  his  head  gently,  and  answered,  but  in- 
audibly. 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  187 

"  Do,"  said  the  lady,  "  set  them  to  music  later  ;  and  the 
next  time  you  come  I  will  sing  them.  I  have  thought  of  a 
title  for  them." 

"  What  ?  "  asked  the  minstrel. 

"  Love's  Quarrel." 

The  minstrel  turned  his  head,  and  their  eyes  met,  and, 
in  meeting,  lingered  long.  Then  he  moved  away,  and  with 
face  turned  from  her  and  towards  the  river,  gave  the  melody 
of  his  wondrous  voice  to  the  following  lines  ; 

LOVE'S   QUARREL. 

Standing  by  the  river,  gazing  on  the  river. 

See  it  paved  with  starbeams ;  heaven  is  at  our  feet. 

Now  the  wave  is  troubled,  now  the  rushes  quiver ; 
Vanished  is  the  starlight — it  was  a  deceit. 

Comes  a  little  cloudlet  'twixt  ourselves  and  heaven, 
And  from  all  the  river  fades  the  silver  track  ; 

Put  thine  arms  around  me,  whisper  low,  "  Forgiven  !" — 
See  how  on  the  river  starlight  settles  back. 

When  he  liad  finished,  still  with  face  turned  aside,  the 
lady  did  not,  indeed,  whisper  "  forgiven,"  nor  put  her  arms 
around  him  ;  but,  as  if  by  irresistible  impulse,  she  laid  her 
hand  lightly  on  his  shoulder. 

The  minstrel  started. 

There  came  to  his  ear — he  knew  not  from  whence,  from 
whom — 

"  JNIischief — mischief  !     Remember  the  little  child  !  " 

"  Hush  !  "  he  said,  staring  round.  "  Did  you  not  hear  a 
voice  ?  " 

"  Only  yours,"  said  the  lady. 

"  It  was  our  guardian  angel's,  Amalie.  It  came  in  time. 
We  will  go  within." 


CHAPTER   XII. 


The  next  morning  betimes,  Kenelm  visited  Tom  at  his 
uncle's  home.  A  comfortable  and  respectable  home  it  was, 
like  that  of  an  owner  in  easy  circumstances.  The  veterinary 
surgeon  himself  was  intelligent,  and  apparently  educated 
beyond  the  range  of  his  calling  ;  a  childless  widower,  be- 


1 88  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

tween  sixty  and  seventy,  living  with  a  sister,  an  old  maid. 
They  were  evidently  much  attached  to  Tom,  and  delighted 
by  the  hope  of  keeping  him  with  them.  Tom  liimself  looked 
rather  sad,  but  not  sullen,  and  his  face  brightened  wonder- 
fully at  first  sight  of  Kenelm.  That  oddity  made  himself  as 
pleasant  and  as  much  like  other  j^eople  as  he  could  in  con- 
versing with  the  old  w'idower  and  the  old  maid,  and  took 
leave,  engaging  Tom  to  be  at  his  inn  at  half-past  twelve  and 
spend  the  day  with  him  and  the  minstrel.  He  then  returned 
to  the  Golden  Lamb,  and  waited  there  for  his  fii'st  visitant, 
the  minstrel. 

That  votary  ot  the  muse  arrived  punctually  at  twelve 
o'clock.  His  countenance  was  less  cheerful  and  sunny  than 
usual.  Kenelm  made  no  allusion  to  the  scene  he  had  wit- 
nessed, nor  did  his  visitor  seem  to  suspect  that  Kenelm  had 
witnessed  it  or  been  the  utterer  of  that  warning  voice. 

Kknelm. — "  I  have  asked  my  friend  Tom  Bowles  to  come 
a  little  later,  because  I  wished  you  to  be  of  use  to  him,  ar'd, 
in  order  to  be  so,  I  should  suggest  how  : " 

The  Minstrel. — "Pray  do." 

Kenelm. — "  You  know  that  I  am  not  a  poet,  and  I  do  not 
have  much  reverence  for  verse-making,  merely  as  a  craft." 

The  Minstrel. — "  Neither  have  I." 

Kenelm. — "  But  I  have  a  great  reverence  for  poetry  as  a 
priesthood.  I  felt  tliat  reverence  for  you  when  you  sketched 
and  talked  priesthood  last  evening,  and  placed  in  my  heart 
— I  hope  forever  while  it  beats — the  image  of  the  child  on 
the  sunlit  hill,  high  above  the  abodes  of  men,  tossing  her 
tlower-ball  heavenward,  and  with  heavenward  eyes." 

The  singer's  cheek  colored  high,  and  his  lip  quivered  ; 
he  was  very  sensitive  to  praise — most  singers  are. 

Kenelm  resumed  :  "  I  have  been  educated  in  the  Realistic 
school,  and  with  realism  I  am  discontented,  because  in  realism 
as  a  school  there  is  no  truth.  It  contains  but  a  bit  of  truth, 
and  that  the  coldest  and  hardest  bit  of  it,  and  he  who  utters 
a  bit  of  truth  and  suppresses  the  rest  of  it,  tells  a  lie." 

The  Minstrel  (slyly).—"  Does  the  critic  who  says  to 
me,  '  Sing  of  beef-steak,  because  the  appetite  for  food  is  a 
real  want  of  dailv  life,  and  don't  sing  of  art  and  glorv  and 
love,  because  in  daily  life  a  man  may  do  without  such  ideas,' 
—tell  a  lie?" 

Kenelm. — "Thank  you  for  that  rebuke.  I  submit  to  it. 
No  doubt  I  did  tell  a  lie — that  is,  if  I  were  quite  in  earnest 
in  my  recommendation  ;  and  if  not  in  earnest,  why -" 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  i8g 

The  Minstrel — "  You  belied  yourself." 

Kenelm. — "  Very  likely.  I  set  out  on  my  travels  to 
escape  from  shams,  and  begin  to  discover  that  I  am  a 
^Yv^iw  par  excellence.  But  I  suddenly  come  across  you,  as  a 
boy  dulled  by  his  syntax  and  his  vulgar  fractions  suddenly 
comes  across  a  pleasant  poem  or  a  picture-book  and  feels  his 
wits  brighten  up.  I  owe  you  much  ;  you  have  done  me  a 
world  of  good." 

"  I  cannot  guess  how." 

"  Possibly  not,  but  you  have  shown  me  how  the  realism 
of  Nature  herself  takes  color  and  life  and  soul  when  seen  on 
the  ideal  or  poetic  side  of  it.  It  is  not  exactly  the  words 
that  you  say  or  sing  that  do  me  good,  but  they  awaken 
within  me  new  trains  of  thought,"  which  I  seek  to  follow 
out.  The  best  teacher  is  the  one  who  suggests  rather  than 
dogmatizes,  and^nspires  his  listener  with  the  wish  to  teach 
himself.  Therefore,  O  singer !  whatever  be  the  worth  in 
critical  eyes  of  your  songs,  I  am  glad  to  remember  that  you 
would  like  to  go  through  the  world  always  singing." 

"  Pardon  me  ;  you  forget  that  I  added,'  if  life  were  always 
young,  and  the  seasons  were  always  summer.'" 

"  I  do  not  forget.  But  if  youth  and  summer  fade  for 
you,  you  leave  youth  and  summer  behind  you  as  you  pass 
along — behind  in  hearts  which  mere  realism  would  make 
always  old,  ancLcounting  their  slothful  beats  under  the  gray 
of  a  sky  without  sun  or  stars  ;  wherefore  I  pray  you  to  con- 
sider how  magnificent  a  mission  the  singer's  is — to  harmonize 
your  life  with  your  song,  and  toss  your  flowers,  as  your 
child  does,  heavenward,  with  heavenward  eyes.  Think  only 
of  this  when  you  talk  with  my  sorrowing  friend,  and  you 
will  do  him  good,  as  you  have  done  me,  without  being  able 
to  guess  how  a  seeker  after  the  Beautiful,  such  as  you, 
carries  us  along  with  him  on  his  way ;  so  that  we,  too,  look 
out  for  beauty,  and  see  it  in  the  wild-flowers  to  which  we 
had  been  blind  before." 

Here  Tom  entered  the  little  sanded  parlor  where  this  dia- 
logue had  been  held,  and  the  three  men  sallied  forth,  taking 
the  shortest  cut  from  the  town  into  the  fields  and  woodlands. 


igo  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Whether  or  not  his  spirits  were  raised  by  Kenelm's 
praise  and  exhortations,  the  minstrel  that  day  talked  with  a 
charm  that  spell-bound  Tom,  and  Kenelm  was  satisfied  with 
brief  remarks  on  his  side  tending  to  draw  out  the  principal 
performer. 

The  talk  was  drawn  from  outward  things,  from  natural 
objects — objects  that  interest  children,  and  men  who,  like 
Tom  Bowles,  have  been  accustomed  to  view  surroundings 
more  with  the  heart's  eye  than  the  mind's  eye.  This  rover 
about  the  country  knew  much  of  the  habits  of  birds  and 
beasts  and  insects,  and  told  anecdotes  of  them  with  a  mixture 
of  humor  and  pathos,  which  fascinated  Tom's  attenticn, 
made  him  laugh  heartily,  and  sometimes  brought  tears  into 
his  big  blue  eyes. 

They  dined  at  an  inn  by  the  wayside,  and  the  dinner  was 
mirthful;  then  they  wended  their  way  slowly  back.  By  the 
declining  daylight  their  talk  grew  somewhat  graver,  and 
Kenelm  took  more  part  in  it.  Tom  listened  mute — still 
fascinated.  At  length,  as  the  town  came  in  sight,  they 
agreed  to  halt  awhile,  in  a  bosky  nook  soft  with  mosses  and 
sweet  with  wild  thyme. 

There  as  they  lay  stretched  at  their  case,  the  birds  hymn- 
ing vesper  songs  amid  the  boughs  above,  or  dropping,  noise- 
less and  fearless,  for  their  evening  food  on  the  swards  around 
them,  the  wanderer  said  to  Kenelm,  "  You  tell  me  that  you 
are  no  poet,  yet  I  am  sure  you  have  a  poet's  perception  ; 
you  must  have  written  poetry?" 

"Not  I  ;  as  I  before  told  you,  only  school  verses  in  dead 
languages  ;  but  I  found  in  my  knapsack  this  morning  a 
copy  of  some  rhymes,  made  by  a  fellow-collegian,  which  I 
put  into  my  pocket,  meaning  to  read  them  to  you  both. 
They  are  not  verses  like  yours,  which  evidently  burst  from 
vou  spontaneously  and  are  not  imitated  from  any  other  poets. 
These  verses  were  written  by  a  Scotchman,  and  smack  of 
imitation  from  the  old  ballad  style.  There  is  little  to  ad- 
mire in  the  words  themselves,  but  there  is  something  in  the 
idea  which  struck  me  as  original,  and  impressed  me 
sufficiently  to  keep  a  copy,  and  somehow  or  other    it  got 


KENELM    CHILLINGLY.  191 

into  the  leaves  of  one  of  the   two  books  I  carried  with  me 

from  home."  ,      1     t      -n 

"What  are  those  books  ?     Books  of  poetry  both,  1  will 

venture  to  wager " 

"  Wrong  !  Both  metaphysical,  and  dry  as  a  bone,  i  om, 
lio-ht  your^pipe,  and  you,  sir,  lean  more  at  ease  on  your 
efbow  ;  I  should  warn  you  that  the  ballad  is  long.  Pa- 
tience !  " 

"  Attention  !  "  said  the  minstrel. 

"  Fire  !  "  added  Tom. 

Kenelm  began  to  read— and  he  read  well  : 

LORD    RONALD'S   BRIDE, 

PART    I. 

♦'  Why  gathers  the  crowd  in  the  Market-place       . 

Ere  the  stars  have  yet  left  the  sky?  " 
"  For  a  holiday  show  and  an  act  of  grace— 

At  the  sunrise  a  witch  shall  die." 

«'  What  deed  has  she  done  to  deserve  that  doom- 
Has  she  blighted  tlie  standmg  corn, 

Or  rifled  for  philters  a  dead  min's  lomb, 
Or  rid  mothers  of  babes  new-born  ?  " 

•'  Her  pact  with  the  Fiend  was  not  thus  revealed, 

She  taught  sinners  the  Word  to  hear  ; 
The  hungry  she  fed,  and  the  sick  she  healed, 

And  was  held  as  a  Saint  last  year. 

••  But  a  holy  man,  who  at  Rome  had  been, 

Had  discovered,  by  book  and  bell. 
That  the  marvels  she  wrought  were  through  arts  unclean, 

And  the  lies  of  the  Prince  of  Hell. 

•'  And  our  Mother  the  Church,  for  the  dame  was  rich. 

And  her  husband  was  Lord  of  Clyde, 
Would  fain  have  been  mild  to  this  saintdike  witch 

If  her  sins  she  had  not  denied. 

"  But  hush,  and  come  nearer  to  see  the  sight. 

Sheriff,  halberds,  and  torchmen,— look  ! 
That's  the  witch,  standing  mute  in  her  garb  of  white, 

By  the  priest  with  his  bell  and  book." 

So  the  witch  was  consumed  on  the  sacred  pyre, 

And  the  priest  grew  in  power  and  pride, 
And  tlie  witch  left  a  son  to  succeed  his  sire 

In  tlio  halls  and  the  lauds  of  Clyde. 


192  KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY. 

And  the  infant  waxed  comely  and  strong  and  brave, 
Rut  Ills  manhood  liad  scarce  liegun, 

"Wlien  his  vessel  was  launched  on  the  northern  wave, 
To  the  shores  which  are  near  the  sun. 


PART    II. 

Lord  Ronald  has  come  to  his  halls  in  Clyde 

With  a  bride  of  some  unknown  race : 
Compared  with  the  man  who  would  kiss  that  bride 

Wallace  wight  were  a  coward  base. 

Her  eyes  had  the  glare  of  the  mountain-cat 
When  it  springs  on  the  hunter's  spear  ; 

At  the  head  of  the  board  when  that  lady  sat 
Hungry  men  could  not  eat  for  fear. 

And  the  tones  of  her  voice  had  the  deadly  growl 
Of  the  bloodhound  that  scents  its  prey  ; 

No  storm  was  so  dark  as  that  lady's  scowl 
Under  tresses  of  wintry  gray. 

•'  Lord  Ronald  !  men  marry  for  love  or  gold, 
Mickle  rich  must  have  been  thy  bride  !  " 

"  Man's  heart  may  be  bought,  woman's  hand  be  sold, 
On  the  banks  of  our  northern  Clyde. 

*'  My  bride  is,  in  sooth,  mickle  rich  to  me, 
Though  she  brought  not  a  groat  in  dower, 

For  her  face,  couldst  thou  see  it  as  I  do  see, 
Is  the  fairest  in  hall  or  bower  !  " 

Quoth  the  bishop  one  day  to  our  lord  the  king, 

"  Satan  reigns  on  the  Clyde  alway. 
And  the  taint  in  the  blood  of  the  witch  doth  cling 

To  the  child  that  she  brought  to  day. 

'•Lord  Ronald  hath  come  from  the  Paynim  land 

With  a  bride  that  appalls  the  sight ; 
Like  his  dam  she  hath  moles  on  her  dread  right  hand. 

And  she  turns  to  a  snake  at  night. 

"  It  is  plain  that  a  Scot  who  can  blindly  dote 

On  the  face  of  an  Eastern  ghoul. 
And  a  ghoul  who  was  worth  not  a  silver  groat, 

Is  a  Scot  who  has  lost  his  soul. 

"  It  were  wise  to  have  done  with  this  demon  tree 
Which  has  teemed  with  such  cankered  fruit  : 

Add  the  soil  where  it  stands  to  my  holy  See, 
And  consign  to  the  flames  its  root," 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  193 

"  Holy  man  !  "  quotii  King  James,  and  he  laughed,  "we  know 

That  thy  tongue  never  wags  in  vain, 
But  tlie  Church  cist  is  full,  and  the  king's  is  low, 

And  the  Clyde  is  a  fair  domain. 

*'  Yet  a  knight  that's  bewitched  by  a  laidly  fere 

Needs  not  mucli  to  dissolve  the  spell ; 
We  will  summon  the  bride  and  the  bridegroom  here. 

Be  at  hand  with  thy  book  and  bell." 


PART   III. 

Lord  Ronald  stood  up  in  King  James's  court, 

And  his  dame  by  his  dauntless  side ; 
The  barons  who  came  in  the  hopes  of  sport 

Shook  vvitli  fright  when  they  saw  the  bride. 

The  bishop,  though  armed  with  his  bell  and  book, 

Grew  as  white  as  if  turned  to  stone, 
It  was  only  our  king  who  could  face  that  look, 

But  he  spoke  with  a  trembling  tone  : 

"Lord  Ronald,  the  knights  of  thy  race  and  mine 

Should  have  mates  in  their  own  degree ; 
What  parentage,  say,  hath  that  bride  of  thine 

Who  hath  come  from  the  far  countree  ? 

"And  what  was  her  dowry  in  gold  or  land, 

Or  what  was  the  charm,  I  pray. 
That  a  comely  young  gallant  should  woo  the  hand 

Of  the  ladye  we  see  to-day  ?  " 

And  the  lords  would  have  laughed,  but  that  awful  dame 
Struck  them  dumb  with  her  thunder-frown  : 

*'  Saucy  king,  did  I  utter  my  father's  name, 
Thou  wouldst  kneel  as  his  liegeman  down. 

"  Though  I  brought  to  Lord  Ronald  nor  lands  nor  gold, 

Nor  the  bloom  of  a  fading  cheek ; 
Yet,  were  I  a  widow,  both  young  and  old 

Would  my  hand  and  my  dowry  seek. 

"  For  the  wi'-h  that  he  covets  the  most  below, 

And  would  hide  from  the  saints  above. 
Which  he  dares  not  to  pray  for  in  weal  or  woe. 

Is  the  dowry  I  bring  my  love. 

**  Let  every  man  look  in  his  heart  and  see 

What  the  wish  he  mosts  lusts  to  win, 
And  then  let  I'.im  fasten  his  eyes  on  me 
While  he  thinks  of  his  darling  sin." 


194  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

And  every  man — bishop,  and  lord,  and  king- 
Thought  of  that  he  most  wished  to  win, 

And,  fixing  his  eye  on  that  gruesome  thing. 
He  beheld  ids  own  darling  ^in. 

No  longer  a  ghoul  in  that  face  he  saw, 

It  was  fair  as  a  boy's  first  love ; 
The  voice  which  had  curdled  liis  veins  with  awe 

Was  the  coo  of  the  woodland  dove. 

Each  heart  was  on  flame  for  the  peerless  dame 

At  the  price  of  the  husband's  life; 
Bright  claymores  flash  out,  and  loud  voices  shout, 

"  In  thy  widow  shall  be  my  wife." 

Then  darkness  fell  over  the  palace  hall, 

More  dark  and  more  dark  it  fell, 
And  a  death-groan  boomed  hoarse  underneath  the  pall. 

And  was  drowned  amid  roar  and  yell. 

When  light  through  the  lattice-pane  stole  once  more, 

It  was  gray  as  a  wintry  dawn, 
And  the  bishop  lay  cold  on  the  regal  floor. 

With  a  stain  on  his  robes  of  lawn. 

Lord  Ronald  was  standing  beside  the  dead, 
In  the  scabbard  he  plunged  his  sword. 

And  with  visage  as  wan  as  the  corpse,  he  said, 
"  Lo  !  my  ladye  hath  kept  her  word. 

"Now  I  leave  her  to  others  to  woo  and  win, 

For  no  longer  I  find  her  fair  ; 
Could  I  look  on  the  face  of  my  darling  sin, 

I  should  see  but  a  dead  man's  there. 

"And  the  dowry  she  brought  me  is  here  returned, 

For  the  wish  of  my  heart  has  died, 
It  is  quenched  in  the  blood  of  the  jiriest  who  burned 

My  sweet  mother,  the  Saint  of  Clyde." 

Lord  Ronald  strode  over  the  stony  floor, 
Not  a  hand  was  outstretched  to  stay  ; 

Lord  Ronald  has  passed  through  the  gaping  door. 
Not  an  eye  ever  traced  his  way. 

And  the  ladye,  left  widowed,  was  prized  above 

All  the  maidens  in  liall  and  bower, 
Many  bartered   their  lives  for  that  ladye's  love. 

And  their  souls  for  that  ladye's  dower. 

God  grant  that  the  wish  which  I  dare  not  pray 

Be  not  that  which  I  lust  to  win, 
And  that  ever  I  look  with  my  first  dismay 

On  the  face  of  my  darling  sin  ! 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  I9S 

As  he  ceased,  Kenelm's  eye  fell  on  Tom's  face  up-turned 
to  his  own,  witii  open  lips,  and  intent  stare,  and  paled  cheeks, 
and  a  look  of  that  higher  sort  of  terror  wliich  belongs  to  awe 
The  man,  then  recovering  himself,  tried  to  speak,  and  at- 
tempted a  sickly  smile,  but  neither  would  do.  He  rose  ab- 
ruptly and  walked  away,  crept  under  the  shadow  of  a  dark 
beech-tree,  and  stood  there  leaning  against  the  trunk. 

"What  say  you  to  the  ballad  ?"  asked  Kenelm  of  the 
singer. 

"  It  is  not  without  power,"  answered  he. 

"  Ay,  of  a  certain  kind." 

The  minstrel  looked  hard  at  Kenelm,  and  dropped  his 
eyes,  with  a  heightened  glow  on  his  cheek. 

"  The  Scotch  are  a  thoughtful  race.  The  Scot  who  wrote 
this  thing  may  have  thought  of  a  day  when  he  saw  beauty  in 
the  face  of  a  darling  sin  ;  but  if  so,  it  is  evident  that  his 
sight  recovered  from  that  glamoury.  Shall  we  walk  on  ? 
Come,  Tom." 

The  minstrel  left  them  at  the  entrance  of  the  town,  say- 
ing, "  I  regret  that  I  cannot  see  more  of  either  of  you,  as  I 
quit  Luscombe  at  daybreak.  Here,  by  the  by,  I  forgot  to 
give  it  before,  is  the  address  you  wanted." 

Kenelm. — "  Of  the  little  child.  I  am  glad  you  remem- 
bered her." 

The  minstrel  again  looked  hard  at  Kenelm,  this  time  with- 
out dropping  his  eyes.  Kenelm's  expression  of  face  was  so 
simply  quiet  that  it  might  be  almost  called  vacant. 

Kenelm  and  Tom  continued  to  walk  on  towards  the  vet- 
erinary surgeon's  house,  for  some  minutes  silently.  Then 
Tom  said  in  a  whisper,  "  Did  not  you  mean  those  rhymes  to 
hit  me  \\^xQ~-here  V  and  he  struck  his  breast. 

"  The  rhymes  were  written  long  before  I  saw  you,  Tom  ; 
but  it  is  well  if  their  meaning  strike  us  all.  Of  you,  my 
friend,  I  have  no  fear  now.  Are  you  not  already  a  changed 
man  ?  " 

**  I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  through  a  change,"  answered 
Tom,  in  slow,  dreary  accents.  "In  hearing  you  and  that 
gentleman  talk  so  much  of  things  that  I  never  thought  of,  I 
felt  something  in  me— you  will  laugh  when  I  tell  you — some- 
thing like  a  bird." 

"  Like  a  bird — good  !  a  bird  has  wings." 

"Just  so." 

"  And  you  felt  wings  that  you  wei-e  unconscious  of  before, 
fluttering  and  beating  themselves  as  against  the  wires  of  a 


196  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

cage.  You  were  true  to  your  instincts  then,  my  dear  fellow- 
man — instincts  of  space  and  heaven.  Courage  ! — the  cage- 
door  will  open  soon.  And  now,  practically  speaking,  I  give 
you  this  advice  in  parting  :  you  have  a  quick  and  sensitive 
mind  which  you  have  allowed  that  strong  body  of  yours  to 
incarcerate  and  suppress.  Give  that  mind  fair  play.  Attend 
to  the  business  of  your  calling  diligently  :  the  craving  for 
regluar  work  is  the  healthful  appetite  of  mind  ;  but  in  your 
spare  hours  cultivate  the  new  ideas  which  your  talk  with  men 
who  have  been  accustomed  to  cultivate  the  mind  more  than 
the  body,  has  sown  within  you.  Belong  to  a  book-club,  and 
interest  yourself  in  books.  A  wise  man  has  said,  '  Books 
widen  the  present  by  adding  to  it  the  past  and  the  future.' 
Seek  the  company  of  educated  men,  and  educated  women 
too  ;  and  when  you  are  angry  with  another,  reason  with  him 
— don't  knock  him  down  ;  and  don't  be  knocked  down  your- 
self by  an  enemy  much  stronger  than  yourself — Drink.  Do 
all  this,  and  when  I  see  you  again  you  will  be " 

"  Stop,  sir — you  will  see  me  again  ?" 

"Yes,  if  we  both  live,  I  promise  it." 

"When?" 

"You  see,  Tom,  we  have  both  of  us  something  in  our  old 
selves  which  we  must  work  off.  You  will  work  off  your 
something  by  repose,  and  I  must  work  off  mine,  if  I  can,  by 
moving  about.  So  I  am  on  my  travels.  May  we  both  have 
new  selves  better  than  the  old  selves,  when  we  again  shake 
hands.  For  your  part  try  your  best,  dear  Tom,  and  heaven 
prosper  you." 

"And  heaven  bless  you!"  cried  Tom,  fervently,  with 
tears  rolling  unheeded  from  his  bold  blue  eyes. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 


Though  Kenelm  left  Luscombe  on  Tuesday  morning,  he 
did  not  appear  at  Neesdale  Park  till  the  Wednesday,  a  little 
before  the  dressing-bell  for  dinner.  Ilis  adventures  in  the 
interim  are  not  worth  repeating.  He  had  hoped  he  might 
fall  in  again  with  the  minstrel,  but  he  did  not. 

His  portmanteau  had  arrived,  and  he  heaved  a  sigh  as  he 
cased  himself  in  a  gentleman's  evening  dress,  "Alas  !  I  have 
soon  got  back  again  into  my  own  skin." 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  197 

There  were  several  other  guests  in  the  house,  though  not 
a  large  party.  They  had  been  asked  with  an  eye  to  tlie  ap- 
proaching election,  consisting  of  squires  and  clergy  from 
remoter  parts  of  the  county.  Chief  among  the  guests  in 
rank  and  importance,  and  rendered  by  the  occasion  the  cen- 
tral object  of  interest,  was  George  Belvoir. 

Kenelm  bore  his  part  in  this  society  with  a  resignation 
that  partook  of  repentance. 

The  first  day  he  spoke  very  little,  and  was  considered  a 
very  dull  young  man  by  the  lady  he  took  in  to  dinner.  Mr. 
Travers  in  vain  tried  to  draw  him  out.  He  had  anticipated 
much  amusement  from  the  eccentricities  of  his  guest,  who 
had  talked  volubly  enough  in  the  fernery,  and  was  sadly 
disappointed.  "  I  feel,"  he  whispered  to  Mrs.  Campion, 
"  like  poor  Lord  Pomfret,  who,  charmed  with  Punch's  lively 
conversation,  bought  him,  and  was  greatly  surprised  that, 
when  he  had  brought  him  home,  Punch  would  not  talk." 

"  But  your  Punch  listens,"  said  Mrs.  Campion,  "  and  he 
observes." 

George  Belvoir,  on  the  other  hand,  was  universally  de- 
clared to  be  very  agreeable.  Though  not  naturally  jovial, 
he  forced  himself  to  appear  so — laughing  loud  with  the 
squires,  and  entering  heartily  with  their  wives  and  daugh- 
ters into  such  topics  as  county-balls  and  croquet-parties  ; 
and  when  after  dinner  he  had,  Cato-like,  "  warmed  his  vir- 
tue with  wine,"  the  virtue  came  out  very  lustily  in  praise  of 
good  men — viz.,  men  of  his  own  party — and  anathema  on 
bad  men — viz.,  men  of  the  other  party. 

Now  and  then  he  appealed  to  Kenelm,  and  Kenelm  al- 
ways returned  the  same  answer,  "There  is  much  in  what 
you  say." 

The  first  evening  closed  in  the  usual  way  in  country- 
houses.  There  was  some  lounging  under  moonlight  on  the 
terrace  before  the  house  ;  then  there  was  some  singing  by 
young  lady  amateurs,  and  a  rubber  of  whist  for  the  elders  ; 
then  wine-and-water,  hand-candlesticks,  a  smoking-room  for 
those  who  smoked,  and  beds  for  those  who  did  not. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening,  Cecilia,  partly  in  obedience 
to  the  duties  of  hostess,  and  partly  from  that  compassion 
for  shyness  which  kindly  and  high-bred  persons  entertain, 
had  gone  a  little  out  of  her  way  to  allure  Kenelm  forth  from 
the  estranged  solitude  he  had  contrived  to  weave  around 
him  ;  in  vain  for  tlie  daughter  as  for  the  father.  He  replied 
to  her  with  the  quiet  self-possession  which  should  h.ve  con 


198  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

vinced  her  that  no  man  on  earth  was  less  entitled  to  indul- 
gence for  the  gentlemanlike  infirmity  of  shyness,  and  no 
man  less  needed  the  duties  of  any  hostess  for  the  augmen- 
tation of  his  comforts,  or  rather  lor  liis  diminished  sense  of 
discomfort  ;  but  his  replies  were  in  monosyllables,  and  made 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  says  in  his  heart,  "If  this  crea- 
ture would  but  leave  me  alone  ! " 

Cecilia,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  was  piqued,  and, 
strange  to  say,  began  to  feel  more  interest  about  tiiis  in- 
different stranger  than  about  the  popular,  animated,  pleas- 
ant George  Belvoir,  who  she  knew  by  womanly  instinct  was 
as  much  in  love  with  her  as  he  could  be. 

Cecilia  Travers  that  night,  on  retiring  to  rest,  told  her 
maid,  smilingly,  that  she  was  too  tired  to  have  her  hair 
done;  and  yet,  when  the  maid  was  dismissed,  she  looked  at 
herself  in  the  glass  more  gravely  and  more  discontentedly 
than  she  had  ever  looked  there  before,  and  tired  though 
she  was,  stood  at  the  window  gazing  into  the  moonlit  night 
for  a  good  hour  after  the  maid  had  left  her. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


Kf.nelm  Chillingly  has  now  been  several  days  a  guest 
at  Neesdale  Park.  He  has  recovered  speech  ;  the  other 
guests  have  gone,  including  George  Belvoir.  Leopold 
Travers  has  taken  a  great  fancy  to  Kenelm.  Leopold  was 
one  of  those  men,  not  uncommon  perhaps  in  England,  who, 
with  great  mental  energies,  have  little  book-knowledge,  and 
when  they  come  in  contact  with  a  book-reader  who  is  not  a 
pedant,  feel  a  pleasant  excitement  in  his  society,  a  source  of 
interest  in  comparing  notes  with  him,  a  constant  surprise  in 
finding  by  what  venerable  authorities  the  deductions  which 
their  own  mother-wit  has  drawn  from  life  arc  supported,  or 
by  what  cogent  argiunents,  derived  from  books,  those  de- 
ductions are  contravened  or  upset.  Leopold  Travers  had 
in  him  that  sense  of  humor  which  generally  accompanies  a 
strong  practical  understanding  (no  man,  for  instance,  has 
more  practical  understanding  than  a  Scot,  and  no  man  has 
a  keener  susceptibility  to  humor),  and  not  only  enjoyed 
Kenelm's  odd  wav  of  expressing  himself,  but  very  often 
mistook  Kenelm's  irony  for  opinion  spoken  in  earnest. 


KENELM   CHJLLINGL  Y. 


199 


Since  his  early  removal  from  the  capital  and  his  devotion 
to  agricultural  pursuits,  it  was  so  seldom  that  Leopold 
Travers  met  a  man  by  whose  conversation  his  mind  was  di- 
verted to  other  subjects  than  those  which  were  incidental  to 
the  commonplace  routine  of  his  life,  that  he  found  in  Ken- 
elm's  views  of  men  and  things  a  source  of  novel  amusement, 
and  a  stirring  appeal  to  su-ch  metaphysical  creeds  of  his  own 
as  had  been  formed  unconsciously,  and  had  long  reposed  un- 
examined in  the  recesses  of  an  intellect  shrewd  and  strong, 
but  more  accustomed  to  dictate  than  to  argue.  Kenelm,  on 
his  side,  saw  much  in  his  host  to  like  and  to  admire  ;  but, 
reversing  their  relative  positions  in  point  of  years,  he  con- 
versed with  Travers  as  with  a  mind  younger  than  his  own. 
Indeed,  it  was  one  of  his  crotchety  theories  that  each  gene- 
ration is  in  substance  mentally  older  than  the  generation 
preceding  it,  especially  in  all  that  relates  to  science  ;  and, 
as  he  would  say,  "  The  study  of  life  is  a  science,  and  not 
an  art." 

But  Cecilia, — what  impression  did  she  create  upon  the 
young  visitor  ?  Was  he  alive  to  the  charms  of  her  rare 
beauty,  to  the  grace  of  a  mind  sufficiently  stored  for  com- 
mune with  those  wlio  loved  to  think  and  to  imagine,  and 
yet  sufficiently  feminine  and  playful  to  seize  the  sportive 
side  of  realities  and  allow  their  proper  place  to  the  trifles 
which  make  the  sum  of  human  things  1  An  impression  she 
did  make,  and  that  impression  was  new  to  him  and  pleasing. 
Nay,  sometimes  in  her  presence,  and  sometimes  when  alone, 
he  fell  into  abstracted  consultations  with  himself,  saying, 
"  Kenelm  Chillingly,  now  that  thou  hast  got  back  into  thy 
proper  skin,  dost  thou  not  think  that  thou  hadst  better  re- 
main there  ?  Couldst  thou  not  be  contented  with  thy  lot  as 
erring  descendant  of  Adam,  if  thou  couldst  win  for  thy  mate 
so  faultless  a  descendant  of  Eve  as  now  flits  before  thee  ?" 
But  he  could  not  extract  from  himself  any  satisfactory  an- 
swer to  the  questions  he  had  addressed  to  himself. 

Once  he  said  abruptly  to  Travers,  as,  on  their  return  from 
their  rambles,  they  caught  a  glimpse  of  Cecilia's  light  form 
bending  over  the  flower-beds  on  the  lawn,  "  Do  you  admire 
Virgil?" 

"  To  say  truth,  I  have  not  read  Virgil  since  I  was  a  boy  ; 
and,  between  you  and  me,  I  then  thought  him  rather  monoto- 
nous." 

"  Perhaps  because  his  verse  is  so  smooth  in  its  beauty  ?  " 

"  Probably.    When  one  is  very  young  one's  taste  is  faulty ; 


200  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

and  if  a  poet  is  not  faulty,  we  are  apt  to  think  he  wants 
vivacity  and  fire." 

"  Thank  you  for  your  hicid  explanation,"  answered  Ken- 
elm,  adding  musingly  to  himself,  "  I  am  afraid  I  should  yawn 
very  often  if  I  were  married  to  a  Miss  Virgil." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


The  house  of  Mr.  Travers  contained  a  considerable  collec- 
tion of  family  portraits,  few  of  them  well  painted,  but  the 
Squire  was  evidently  proud  of  such  evidences  of  ancestry. 
They  not  only  occupied  a  considerable  space  on  the  walls  of 
the  reception-rooms,  but  swarmed  into  the  principal  sleeping- 
chambers,  and  smiled  or  frowned  on  the  beholder  from  daric 
passages  and  remote  lobbies.  One  morning  Cecilia,  on  her 
way  to  the  China  Closet,  found  Kenelm  gazing  very  intently 
upon  a  female  portrait  consigned  to  one  of  these  obscure 
receptacles  by  which  thi-ough  a  back  staircase  he  gained  the 
only  approach  from  the  hall  to  his  chamber. 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  good  judge  of  paintings,"  said 
Kenelm,  as  Cecilia  paused  beside  him  ;  "  but  it  strikes  me 
that  this  picture  is  very  much  better  than  most  of  those  to 
which  places  of  honor  are  assigned  in  your  collection.  And 
the  face  itself  is  so  lovely  that  it' would  add  an  embellishment 
to  the  princelicst  galleries." 

"  Yes,"  said  Cecelia,  with  a  half-sigh.  "  The  face  is  love- 
ly, and  the  portrait  is  considered  one  of  Lely's  rarest  master- 
pieces. It  used  to  hang  over  the  chimney-piece  in  the  draw- 
ing-room.    My  father  had  it  placed  here  many  years  ago." 

'*  Perhaps  because  he  discovered  it  was  not  a  familv  por- 
trait ? " 

"  On  the  contrary — because  it  grieves  him  to  think  it  is  a 
family  portrait.  Hush  !  I  hear  his  footstep  ;  don't  speak  of 
it  to  him  ;  don't  let  him  see  you  looking  at  it.  The  subject 
is  very  painful  to  him." 

Here  Cecilia  vanished  into  the  China  Closet,  and  Kenelm 
turned  off  to  his  own  room. 

What  sin  committed  by  the  original  in  the  time  of  Charles 
II.,  but  only  discovered  in  the  reign  of  Victoria,  could  have 
justified  Leopold  Travers  in  removing  the  most  pleasing  por 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  20i 

trait  in  the  house  from  tlie  honored  place  it  had  occupied, 
and  banishing  it  to  so  obscure  a  recess  ?  Kenehn  said  no 
more  on  the  subject,  and  indeed  an  hour  afterwards  had  dis- 
missed it  from  his  thoughts.  Tlie  next  day  he  rode  out  with 
Travers  and  Cecilia.  Their  way  passed  through  quiet  shady 
lanes  without  any  purposed  direction,  when  suddenly,  at  the 
spot  where  three  of  those  lanes  met  on  an  angle  of  common 
ground,  a  lonely  gray  tow^er,  in  the  midst  of  a  wide  space  of 
grass  land  which  looked  as  if  it  had  once  been  a  park,  with 
huge  boles  of  pollarded  oak  dotting  the  space  here  and  there, 
rose  before  them. 

"  Cissy  !  "  cried  Travers,  angrily  reining  in  his  horse  and 
stopping  short  in  a  political  discussion  which  he  had  forced 
upon  Kenelm — "  Cissy !  How  comes  this  ?  We  have  taken 
the  wrong  turn!  No  matter:  I  see  there,"  pointing  to  the 
right,  "the  chimney-pots  of  old  Mondell's  homestead.  He 
has  not  yet  promised  his  vote  to  George  Belvoir.  I'll  go  and 
have  a  talk  witli  him.  Turn  back,  you  and  Mr.  Chillingly 
— meet  me  at  Turner's  Green,  and  wait  for  me  there  till  I 
come.  I  need  not  excuse  myself  to  you,  Chillingly.  A  vote 
is  a  vote."  So  saying,  the  Squire,  whose  ordinary  riding- 
horse  was  an  old  hunter,  halted,  turned,  and,  no  gate  being 
visible,  put  the  horse  over  a  stiff  fence  and  vanished  in  the  di- 
rection of  old  Mondell's  chimney-pots.  Kenelm,  scarcely 
hearing  his  host's  instructions  to  Cecilia  and  excuses  to  him- 
self, remained  still  and  gazing  on  the  old  gray  tower  thus 
abruptly  obtruded  on  his  view. 

Though  no  learned  antiquarian  like  his  father,  Kenelm 
had  a  strange  fascinating  interest  in  all  relics  of  the  past ; 
and  old  gray  towers,  where  they  are  not  church  towers,  are 
very  rarely  to  be  seen  in  England.  All  around  the  old  gray 
tower  spoke  with  an  unutterable  mournfulness  of  the  past 
in  ruins  :  you  could  see  remains  of  some  large  Gothic  build- 
ing once  attached  to  it,  rising  here  and  there  in  fragments 
of  deeply-buttressed  walls  ;  you  could  even  see  in  a  dry  ditch, 
between  high  ridges,  where  there  had  been  a  fortified  moat ; 
nay,  you  could  even  see  where  once  had  been  the  bailey  hill 
from  which  a  baron  of  old  had  dispensed  justice.  Seldom  in- 
deed does  the  most  acute  of  antiquarians  discover  that  rem- 
nant of  Norman  times  on  lands  still  held  by  the  oldest  of  An- 
glo Norman  families.  Then,  the  wild  nature  of  the  demesne 
around;  those  ranges  of  sward,  with  those  old  giant  oak- 
trunks,  hollowed  within  and  pollarded  at  tup;  all  spoke,  m 
unison  witli  the  gray  tower,  of  a  past  as  remote  from  the 

9* 


202  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

reign  of  Victoria  as  the  Pyramids  are  from  the  sway  of  the 
Viceroy  of  Egypt. 

"  Let  us  turn  back,"  said  Miss  Travers  ;  "  my  father  would 
not  lil<e  me'to  stay  liere." 

"  Pardon  me  a  moment.  I  wish  my  father  were  here  ; 
he  would  stay  till  sunset.  But  wliat  is  the  history  of  that 
old  tower? — a  history  it  nuist  have." 

"  Every  home  has  a  history — even  a  peasant's  hut,"  said 
Cecilia.  But  do  pardon  me  if  I  ask  you  to  comply  with  my 
father's  request.      I  at  least  must  turn  back." 

Thus  commanded,  Kenelm  reluctantly  withdrew  his  gaze 
from  the  ruin  and  regained  Cecilia,  who  was  already  some 
paces  in  return  down  the  lane. 

"  I  am  far  from  a  very  inquisitive  man  by  temperament," 
said  Kenelm,  "so  far  as  the  affairs  of  the  living  are  concerned. 
But  I  should  not  care  to  open  a  book  if  I  had  no  interest  in 
the  past.  Pray  indulge  my  curiosity  to  learn  something  about 
that  old  tower.  It  could  not  look  more  melancholy  and  soli- 
tary if  I  had  built  it  myself." 

"  Its  most  melancholy  associations  are  with  a  very  recent 
past,"  answered  Cecilia.  "  The  tower,  in  remote  times, 
formed  the  keep  of  a  castle  belonging  to  the  most  ancient 
and  once  the  most  powerful  family  in  these  parts.  The 
owners  were  barons  who  took  active  share  in  the  Wars  of 
the  Roses.  The  last  of  them  sided  with  Richard  III.,  and 
after  the  battle  of  Bosworth  the  title  was  attainted,  and  the 
larger  portion  of  the  lands  were  confiscated.  Loyalty  to 
a  Plantagenct  was  of  course  treason  to  a  Tudor.  But  the 
regeneration  of  the  family  rested  with  their  direct  descend- 
ants, who  had  saved  from  the  general  wreck  of  their  for- 
tunes what  may  be  called  a  good  squire's  estate — about, 
perhaps,  the  same  rental  as  my  father's,  but  of  much  larger 
acreage.  These  squires,  however,  were  more  looked  up  to 
in  the  county  than  the  wealthiest  peer.  They  were  still  by 
far  the  oldest  family  in  the  county  ;  and  traced  in  their 
pedigree  alliances  with  the  most  illustrious  houses  in  Eng- 
lish history.  In  themselves  too,  for  many  generations,  they 
were  a  high-spirited,  hospitable,  popular  race,  living  un- 
ostentatiously on  their  income,  and  contented  with  their 
rank  of  squires.  The  castle — ruined  by  time  and  siege — 
they  did  not  attempt  to  restore.  They  dwelt  in  a  house 
near  to  it,  built  about  Elizabeth's  time,  which  you  could 
not  see,  for  it  lies  in  a  hollow  behind  the  tower — a  moder- 
ate-sized,   picturesque,   country  gentleman's    house.     Our 


KENELM   CHlLLnVGLY.  203 

family  intermarried  with  them.  The  portrait  you  saw  was 
a  daughter  of  their  liouse.  And  very  proud  was  any  squire 
in  tlie  county  of  intermarriage  with  the  Fletwodes.'" 

"  Fietwode — that  was  their  name  ?  I  have  a  vague  re- 
collection of  having  heard  the  name  connected  with  some 
disastrous— oh,  butit  can't  be  the  same  family— pray  go  on.' 

"  I  fear  it  is  the  same  family.  But  I  will  finish  the  story 
as  I  have  heard  it.  The  property  descended  at  last  to  one 
Bertram  Fietwode,  who,  unfortunately,  obtained  the  repu- 
tation of  being  a  very  clever  man  of  business.  There  was 
some  mining  company  in  which,  with  other  gentlemen  in 
the  county,  he  took  great  interest  ;  invested  largely  in 
shares  ;  became  the  head  of  the  direction " 

"  I  see  ;  and  was,  of  course,  ruined." 

"  No  :  worse  than  that,  he  became  very  rich  ;  and,  un- 
happily, became  desirous  of  being  richer  still.  I  have  heard 
that  there  was  a  great  mania  for  speculations  just  about 
that  time.  He  embarked  in  these,  and  prospered,  till  at 
last  he  was  induced  to  invest  a  large  share  of  the  fortune 
thus  acquired  in  the  partnership  of  a  bank,  which  enjoyed 
a  high  character.  Up  to  that  time  he  had  retained  popu- 
larity and  esteem  in  the  county  ;  but  the  squires  who  shared 
in  the  adventures  of  the  mining  company,  and  kncAV  little 
or  nothing  about  other  speculations  in  which  his  name  did 
not  appear,  professed  to  be  shocked  at  the  idea  of  a  Fiet- 
wode, of  Fietwode,  being  ostensibly  joined  in  partnership 
with  a  Jones,  of  Clapham,  in  a  London  bank." 

"  Slow  folks,  those  country  squires, — behind  the  pro- 
gress of  the  age.     Well  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard  that  Bertram  Fietwode  was  liimself  very 
reluctant  to  take  this  step,  but  was  persuaded  to  do  so  by 
his  son.  This  son,  Alfred,  was  said  to  have  still  greater 
talents  for  business  than  the  father,  and  had  been  not  only 
associated  with  but  consulted  by  him  in  all  the  later  specu- 
lations which  had  proved  so  fortunate.  Mrs.  Campion  knew 
Alfred  Fietwode  very  well.  She  describes  him  as  hand- 
some, with  quick,  eager  eyes  ;  showy  and  imposing  in  his 
talk  ;  immensely  ambitious — more  ambitious  than  avari- 
cious,— collecting  money  less  for  its  own  sake  than  for  that 
which  it  could  give — rank  and  power.  According  to  her  it 
was  the  dearest  wish  of  his  heart  to  claim  the  old  barony, 
but  not  before  there  could  go  with  the  barony  a  fortune 
adequate  to  the  lustre  of  a  title  so  ancient,  and  equal  to  the 
wealth  of  modern  peers  with  higher  nominal  rank." 


204  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

"A  poor  ambition  at  the  best;  of  tlic  two  I  should  pre- 
fer tliat  of  a  poet  in  a  garret.  But  I  am  no  judge.  Thank 
heaven  I  have  no  ambition.  Still,  all  ambition,  all  desire 
to  rise,  is  interesting  to  him  who  is  ignominiously  contented 
if  he  does  not  fall.  So  the  son  had  his  way,  and  Fletwode 
joined  company  with  Jones  on  the  road  to  wealth  and  the 
peerage  ? — meanwhile,  did  the  son  marry  ?  if  so,  of  course 
the  daughter  of  a  duke  or  a  millionaire.  Tuft-hunting,  or 
money-making,  at  the  risk  of  degradation  and  the  work- 
house.    Progress  of  the  age  !  " 

"  No,"  replied  Cecilia,  smiling  at  this  outburst,  but 
smiling  sadly,  "  Fletwode  did  not  marry  the  daughter  of  a 
duke  or  a  millionaire  ;  but  still  liis  wife  belonged  to  a  noble 
family — very  poor,  but  very  proud.  Perhaps  he  married 
from  motives  of  ambition,  though  not  of  gain.  Her  father 
was  of  much  political  influence  that  might  perhaps  assist 
his  claim  to  the  barony.  The  mother,  a  woman  of  the 
Avorld  ;  enjoying  a  high  social  position,  and  nearly  related  to 
a  connection  of  ours — Lady  Glenalvon." 

"  Lady  Glenalvon,  the  dearest  of  my  lady  friends  !  You 
are  connected  with  her  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  Lord  Glenalvon  was  my  mother's  uncle.  But  I 
wish  to  finish  my  story  before  my  father  joins  us.  Alfred 
Fletwode  did  not  marry  till  long  after  the  partnership  in  tiie 
bank.  His  father,  at  his  desire,  had  bought  up  the  whole 
business, — Mr.  Jones  having  died.  The  bank  was  carried 
on  in  the  names  of  Fletwode  and  Son.  But  the  father  had 
become  merely  a  nominal,  or  what  I  believe  is  called,  a 
'sleeping'  partner.  He  had  long  ceased  to  reside  in  the 
county.  The  old  house  was  not  grand  enough  for  him. 
He  had  purchased  a  palatial  residence  in  one  of  the  home 
counties  ;  lived  there  in  great  splendor  ;  was  a  munificent 
patron  of  science  and  art  ;  and  in  spite  pf  his  earlier  addic 
tion  to  business-like  speculations,  he  appears  to  have  been 
a  singularly  accomplished,  higli-bred  gentleman.  Some 
years  before  his  son's  maTrriage,  Mr.  Fletwode  had  been 
afflicted  with  partial  paralysis,  and  his  medical  attendant 
enjoined  rigid  abstention  from  business.  From  that  time 
he  never  interfered  with  his  son's  management  of  the  bank. 
He  had  an  only  daughter,  much  younger  than  Alfred.  Lord 
Eagleton,  my  mother's  brother,  was  engaged  to  be  married 
to  her.  The  wedding-day  was  fixed — when  the  world  was 
startled  by  the  news  that  the  great  firm  of  Fletwode  and 
Son  had  stopped  payment,  —  is  that  the  right  jihrase  ?" 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY.  205 

"  I  believe  so." 

"  A  great  many  people  were  ruined  in  that  failure.  The 
public  indignation  was  very  great.  Of  course  all  tlie  Flet- 
wode  property  went  to  the  creditors.  Old  Mr.  Fletwode  was 
legally  acciuitted  of  all  other  offence  than  that  of  over-confi- 
dence'in  his  son.  Alfred  was  convicted  of  fraud — of  forgery. 
I  don't,  of  course,  know  the  particulars, — they  are  very  com- 
plicated. He  was  sentenced  to  a  long  term  of  servitude, 
but  died  the  day  he  was  condemned— apparently  by  poison, 
which  he  had  long  secreted  about  his  person.  Now  you 
can  understand  why  my  father,  who  is  almost  gratuitously 
sensitive  on  the  point  of  honor,  removed  into  a  dark  corner 
the  portrait  of  Arabella  Fletwode, — his  own  ancestress,  but 
also  the  ancestress  of  a  convicted  felon, — you  can  under- 
stand why  the  whole  subject  is  so  painful  to  him.  His 
wife's  brother  was  to  have  married  the  felon's  sister  ;  and 
though,  of  course,  that  marriage  was  tacitly  broken  off  by 
the  terrible  disgrace  that  had  befallen  the  Fletwodes,  yet  I 
don't  think  my  poor  uncle  ever  recovered  the  blow  to  his 
hopes.  He  went  abroad,  and  died  in  Bladeira,  of  a  slow 
decline." 

"And  the  felon's  sister,  did  she  die  too  ?" 

"  No  ;  not  that  I  know  of.  Mrs.  Campion  says  that  she 
saw  in  a  newspaper  the  announcement  of  old  Mr.  Flctwode's 
death,  and  a  paragraph  to  the  effect  that  after  that  event 
Miss  Fletwode  had  sailed  from  Liverpool  for  New  York." 

"  Alfred  Fletwode's  wife  went  back,  of  course,  to  her 
family?" 

"  Alas  !  no, — poor  thing  !  She  had  not  been  many  months 
married  when  the  bank  broke  ;  and  among  his  friends  her 
wretched  husband  appears  to  have  forged  the  names  of  the 
trustees  to  her  marriage  settlement,  and  sold  out  the  sums 
which  would  otherwise  have  served  her  as  a  competence. 
Her  father,  too,  was  a  great  sufferer  by  the  bankruptcy, 
having  by  his  son-in-law's  advice  placed  a  considerable  por- 
tion of  his  moderate  fortune  in  Alfred's  hands  for  investment, 
all  of  which  was  involved  in  the  general  wreck.  I  am  afraid 
he  was  a  very  hard-hearted  man  ;  at  all  events,  his  poor 
daughter  never  returned  to  him.  She  died,  I  think,  even 
before  the  death  of  Bertram  Fletwode.  The  whole  story  is 
verv  dismal." 

'"  Dismal  indeed,  but  pregnant  with  salutary  warnings  to 
those  who  live  in  an  age  of  progress.  Here  you  see  a  family 
of  fair  fortune,   living  hospitably,   beloved,  revered,  more 


2o6  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

looked  up  to  by  their  neighbors  than  the  wealtliiest  nobles 
— no  family  not  proud  to  boast  alliance  with  it.  All  at  once, 
in  th-e  tranquil  records  of  this  happy  race,  appears  that 
darling  of  the  age,  that  hero  of  progress — a  clever  man  of 
business.  He  be  contented  to  live  as  his  fathers !  He  be 
contented  with  such  trilics  as  competence,  respect,  and  love  ! 
Much  too  clever  for  that.  The  age  is  money-making — go 
with  the  age  !  He  goes  with  the  age.  Born  a  gentleman 
only,  he  exalts  himself  into  a  trader.  But  at  least  he,  it 
seems,  if  greedy,  was  not  dishonest.  He  was  born  a  gentle- 
man, iDut  his  son  was  born  a  trader.  The  son  is  a  still 
cleverer  man  of  business  ;  the  son  is  consulted  and  trusted. 
Aha  !  He  too  goes  with  the  age  ;  to  greed  he  links  ambition. 
The  trader's  son  wishes  to  return — what  ?  to  the  rank  of 
gentleman  ?— gentleman  !  nonsense  !  everybody  is  a  gentle- 
man nowadays — to  the  title  of  Lord.  How  ends  it  all  ? 
Could  I  sit  but  for  twelve  hours  in  the  innermost  heart  of 
that  Alfred  Fletwode — could  I  see  how,  step  by  step  from 
his  childhood,  the  dishonest  son  was  avariciously  led  on  by 
the  honest  father  to  depart  from  the  old  vestigia  of  Fletwodes 
of  Fletwode — scorning  The  Enough  to  covet  The  More — 
gaining  The  More  to  sigh  it  is  not  The  Enough— I  think  I 
might  show  that  the  age  lives  in  a  house  of  glass,  and  liad 
better  not  for  its  own  sake  tlirow  stones  on  the  felon  !  " 

"  Ah,  but,  Mr.  Chillingly,  surely  this  is  a  very  rare  ex- 
ception in  the  general " 

"  Rare  ! "  interrupted  Kenelm,  who  was  excited  to  a 
warmth  of  passion  which  would  have  startled  his  most  inti- 
mate friend — if  indeed  an  intimate  friend  had  ever  been 
vouchsafed  to  him—"  rare  !  nay,  how  common — I  don't  say 
to  the  extent  of  forgery  and  fraud,  but  to  the  extent  of  de- 
gradation and  ruin— is  the  greed  of  a  Little  More  to  those 
who  have  The  Enough  ;  is  the  discontent  with  competence, 
respect,  and  love,  when  catching  sight  of  a  money-bag  ! 
How  many  well-descended  county  families,  cursed  with  an 
heir  who  is  called  a  clever  man  of  business,  have  vanished 
from  the  soil  !  A  company  starts — the  clever  man  joins  it 
— one  briglit  day.  Pouf  !  the  old  estates  and  tlie  old  name 
are  powder.  Ascend  higher.  Take  nobles  whose  ancestral 
titles  ought  to  be  to  English  ears  like  the  sound  of  clarions, 
awakening  the  most  slothfid  to  the  scorn  of  money-bags  and 
the  passion  for  renown.  Lo  !  in  that  mocking  dance  of 
death  called  the  Progress  of  the  Age,  one  who  did  not  find 
Enough  in  a  sovereign's  revenue,  and  seeks  the  Little  More 


KENELM   CIIILLIiXGLY.  207 

as  a  gambler  on  the  turf  by  the  advice  of  blacklegs  !  Lo  ! 
another,  with  lands  wider  than  his  greatest  ancestors  ever 
possessed,  must  still  go  in  for  The  Little  More,  adding  acre 
to  acre,  heaping  debt  upon  debt  !  Lo  !  a  third,  whose  name, 
borne  by  his  ancestors,  was  once  the  terror  of  England's 
foes— the  landlord  of  a  hotel  !  A  fourth— but  why  go  on 
through  the  list?  Another  and  another  still  succeeds — each 
on  the  Road  to  Ruin,  each  in  the  Age  of  Progress.  Ah, 
Miss  Travers  !  in  the  old  time  it  was  through  the  Temple 
of  Honor  that  one  passed  to  the  Temple  of  Fortune.  In 
this  wise  age  the  process  is  reversed.  But  here  comes  your 
father." 

"  A  thousand  pardons  !  "  said  Leopold  Travers.  "  That 
numskull  Mondell  kept  me  so  long  with  his  old-fashioned 
Tory  doubts  whether  liberal  politics  are  favorable  to  agricul- 
tural prospects.  But  as  he  owes  a  round  sum  to  a  Whig 
lawyer  I  had  to  talk  with  his  wife,  a  prudent  woman  ;  con- 
vinced her  tliat  his  own  agricultural  prospects  were  safest 
on  the  Whig  side  of  the  question  ;  and,  after  kissing  the 
baby  and  shaking  his  hand,  booked  his  vote  for  George 
Belvoir — a  plumper." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Kenelm  to  himself,  and  with  that  can- 
dor which  characterized  hnn  whenever  he  talked  to  himself, 
"  that  Travers  has  taken  the  right  road  to  the  Temple,  not 
of  Honor,  but  of  honors,  in  every  country,  ancient  or  mod- 
ern, which  has  adopted  the  system  of  popular  suffrage.' 


CHAPTER  XVn. 


The  next  day  Mrs.  Campion  and  Cecilia  were  seated 
under  the  veranda.  They  were  both  ostensibly  employed 
on  two  several  pieces  of  embroidery,  one  intended  for  a 
screen,  the  other  for  a  sofa-cushion.  But  the  mind  of 
neither  was  on  her  work. 

Mrs.  Campion. — "  Has  Mr.  Chillingly  said  when  he 
means  to  take  leave  ?  " 

Cecilia. — "Not  to  me.  How  much  my  dear  fatlier  en- 
joys his  conversation  !  " 

Mrs.  Campion.—"  Cynicism  and  mockery  were  not  so 
much  the  fashion  among  young  men  in  your  father's  day  a^ 
I  suppose  they  are  now,  and  therefore  they  seem  new  to  Mr. 


2o8  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

Travcrs.  To  nie  they  are  not  new,  because  I  saw  more  of 
the  old  than  the  young  when  I  lived  in  London,  and  cynic- 
ism and  mockery  are  more  natural  to  men  who  are  leaving 
the  world  than  to  those  who  are  entering  it." 

Cecilia. — "  Dear  Mrs.  Campion,  how  bitter  you  arc,  and 
how  unjust !  You  take  much  too  literally  the  jesting  way 
in  which  Mr.  Chillingly  expresses  himself.  There  can  be 
no  cynicism  in  one  who  goes  out  of  his  way  to  make  others 

happy." 

Mrs.  Campion. — "You  mean  in  the  whim  of  making  an 
ill-assorted  marriage  between  a  pretty  village  flirt  and  a  sick- 
ly cripple,  and  settling  a  couple  of  peasants  in  a  business  for 
which  they  are  wholly  unfitted." 

Cecilia. — "  Jessie  Wiles  is  not  a  flirt,  and  I  am  convinced 
that  she  will  make  Will  Somers  a  very  good  wife,  and  that 
the  shop  will  be  a  great  success." 

Mrs.  Campion.—"  We  shall  see.  Still,  if  Mr.  Chillingly's 
talk  belies  his  actions,  he  may  be  a  good  man,  but  he  is  a 
very  affected  one." 

Cecilia. — "  Have  I  not  heard  you  say  that  there  are  per- 
sons so  natural  that  they  seem  affected  to  those  who  do  not 
understand  them  ?" 

Mrs.  Campion  raised  her  eyes  to  Cecilia's  face,  dropped 
them  again  over  her  work,  and  said,  in  grave  undertones, 

"  Take  care,  Cecilia." 

"  Take  care  of  what  ?  " 

"  My  dearest  child,  forgive  me  ;  but  I  do  not  like  the 
warmth  with  which  you  defend  Mr.  Chillingly." 

"  Would  not  my  father  defend  him  still  more  warmly  if 
he  had  heard  you  ?" 

"  Men  judge  of  men  in  their  relations  to  men.  I  am  a 
woman,  and  judge  of  men  in  their  relations  to  women.  I 
should  tremble  for  the  happiness  of  any  woman  who  joined 
her  fate  with  that  of  Kenclm  Chillingly." 

"My  dear  friend,  I  do  not  understand  you  to-day." 

"  Nay,  I  did  not  mean  to  be  so  solemn,  my  love.  After  all, 
it  is  nothing  to  us  whom  Mr.  Chillingly  may  or  may  not 
marry.  He  is  but  a  passing  visitor,  and,  once  gone,  the 
chances  are  that  we  may  not  see  him  again  for  years." 

Thus  speaking,  Mrs.  Campion  again  raised  her  eyes  from 
her  work,  stealing  a  sidelong  glance  at  Cecilia  ;  and  her 
mother-like  heart' sank  within  her,  on  noticing  how  sudden- 
ly pale  the  girl  had  become,  and  how  her  lips  quivered. 
Mrs.  Campion  had  enough  knowledge  of  life  to  feel  aware 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  209 

that  she  had  committed  a  grievous  blunder.  In  that  earliest 
stage  of  virgin  affection  when  a  girl  is  unconscious  of  more 
than  a  certain  vague  interest  in  one  man  which  distinguishes 
him  from  others  in  her  thouglits, — if  she  hears  him  unjustly- 
disparaged,  if  some  warning  against  him  is  implied,  if  the 
probability  that  he  will  never  be  more  to  her  than  a  passing 
acquaintance  is  forcibly  obtruded  on  her, — suddenly  that 
vague  interest,  which  might  otherwise  have  faded  away  with 
many  another  girlish  fancy,  becomes  arrested,  consolidated  ; 
the  quick  pang  it  occasions  makes  her  involuntarily,  and  for 
the  first  time,  question  herself,  and  ask,  "Do  I  love?"  But 
when  a  girl  of  a  nature  so  delicate  as  that  of  Cecilia  Travers 
can  ask  herself  the  question,  "  Do  I  love  ?"  her  very  modes- 
ty, her  very  shrinking  from  acknowledging  that  any  power 
over  her  thoughts  for  weal  or  for  woe  can  be  acquired  by  a 
man,  except  through  the  sanction  of  that  love  which  only 
becomes  divine  in  her  eyes  when  it  is  earnest  and  pure  and 
self-devoted,  makes  her  prematurely  disposed  to  answer 
"  yes."  And  wlien  a  girl  of  such  a  nature  in  her  own  heart 
answers  "  yes  "  to  such  a  question,  even  if  she  deceive  her- 
self at  the  moment,  she  begins  to  cherish  the  deceit  till  the 
belief  in  her  love  becomes  a  reality.  She  has  adopted  a  re- 
ligion, false  or  true,  and  she  w^ould  despise  herself  if  she 
could  be  easily  converted. 

Mrs.  Campion  had  so  contrived  that  she  had  forced  that 
question  upon  Cecilia,  ^nd  she  feared,  by  the  girl's  change. 
of  countenance,  that  the  girl's  heart  had  answered  "yes." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


While  the  conversation  just  narrated  took  place,  Kenelm 
had  walked  forth  to  pay  a  visit  to  Will  Somers.  All  obsta- 
cles to  Will's  marriage  were  now  cleared  away  ;  the  trans- 
fer of  lease  for  the  shop,  had  been  signed,  and  the  banns 
were  to  be  published  for  the  first  time  on  the  following  Sun- 
day. We  need  not  say  that  Will  was  very  happy.  Kenelm 
then  paid  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Bowles,  with  whom  he  stayed  an 
hour.  On  re-entering  the  Park,  he  saw  Travers,  walking 
slowly,  with  downcast  eyes,  and  his  hands  clasped  behind 
him  (his  habit  when  in  thought).  He  did  not  observe  Ken- 
elm's  approach  till  within  a  few  feet   of  him,  and  he  then 


2IO  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

greeted  his  guest  in  listless  accents,  unlike  his  usual  cheer- 
ful tones. 

"  I  have  been  visiting  the  man  you  have  made  so  happy," 
said  Kenelm. 

"  Who  can  that  be  ?  " 

"Will  Somers.  Do  you  make  so  many  people  happy 
that  your  reminiscence  of  them  is  lost  in  their  number  ?  " 

Travers  smiled  faintly,  and  shook  his  head. 

Kenelm  went  on.  "  I  have  also  seen  Mrs.  Bowles,  and 
you  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  Tom  is  satisfied  with  his 
change  of  abode  ;  there  is  no  chance  of  his  returning  to 
Graveleigh  ;  and  Mrs.  Bowles  took  very  kindly  to  my  sug- 
gestion that  the  little  property  yovi  wish  for  should  be  sold 
to  you,  and,  in  tliat  case,  she  would  remove  to  Luscombe  to 
be  near  her  son." 

**  I  thank  you  much  for  your  thought  of  me,"  said  Tra- 
vers, "and  the  affair  shall  be  seen  to  at  once,  though  the 
purchase  is  no  longer  inportant  to  me.  I  ought  to  ha\'e 
told  you  three  days  ago,  but  it  slipped  my  memory,  that  a 
neighboring  squire,  a  young  fellow  just  come  into  his  prop- 
erty, has  offered  to  exchange  a  capital  farm,  much  nearer 
to  my  residence,  for  the  lands  I  hold  in  Graveleigh,  includ- 
ing Saunderson's  farm  and  the  cottages  :  they  are  quite  at 
the  outskirts  of  my  estate,  but  run  into  his,  and  the  exchange 
will  be  advantageous  to  both.  Still  I  am  glad  that  the 
neighborhood  should  be  thoroughly  rid  of  a  brute  like  Tom 
Bowles." 

"You  would  not  call  him  brute  if  you  knew  him  ;  but  I 
am  sorry  to  hear  that  Will  Somers  will  be  under  another 
landlord." 

"  It  does  not  matter,  since  his  tenure  is  secured  for  four- 
teen years." 

"  What  sort  of  man  is  the  new  landlord  ? " 

"I  don't  know  much  of  him.  lie  was  in  the  army  till 
his  father  died,  and  has  only  just  made  his  appearance  in 
the  county.  He  has,  however,  already  earned  the  charac- 
ter of  being  too  fond  of  the  other  sex,  and  it  is  well  that 
pretty  Jessie  is  to  be  safely  married." 

Travers  then  relapsed  into  a  moody  silence  from  which 
Kenelm  fou.nd  it  difficult  to  rouse  him.  At  length  the  lat- 
ter said,  kindly  : 

"My  dear  Mr.  Travers,  do  not  think  I  take  a  liberty  if  I 
venture  to  guess  that  something  has  happened  this  morning 
which  troubles  or  vexes  you.     When  that  is  the  case,  it  is 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  211 

often  a  relief  to  say  what  it  is,  even  to  a  confidant  so  unable 
to  advise  or  to  comfort  as  myself." 

"  You  are  a  good  fellow,  Chillingly,  and  I  know  not, 
at  least  in  these  parts,  a  man  to  whom  I  would  unburden 
myself  more  freely.  I  am  put  out,  I  confess  ;  disappointed 
unreasonably,  in  a  cherished  wish,  and,"  he  added,  with  a 
slight  laugh,  "  it  always  annoys  me  when  I  don't  have  my 
own  way." 

"  So  it  does  me." 

"Don't  you  think  that  George  Belvoir  is  a  very  fine 
young  man  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"/  call  him  handsome  ;  he  is  steadier,  too,  than  most 
men  of  his  age  and  of  his  command  of  money  ;  and  yet  he 
does  not  want  spirit  nor  knowledge  of  life.  To  every  ad- 
vantage of  rank  and  fortune  he  adds  the  industry  and  the 
ambition  which  attain  distinction  in  public  life." 

"  Quite  true.  Is  he  going  to  withdraw  from  the  election 
after  all  ? " 

"  Good  Heavens,  no  !  " 

"  Then  how  does  he  not  let  you  have  your  own  way  ? " 

"  It  is  not  he,"  said  Travers,  peevishly  ;  "  it  is  Cecilia. 
Don't  you  understand  that  George  is  precisely  the  husband 
I  would  choose  for  her  ?  and  this  morning  came  a  very  well 
written  manly  letter  from  him,  asking  my  permission  to 
pay  his  addresses  to  her." 

"  But  that  is  your  own  way  so  far." 

"Yes,  and  here  comes  the  balk.  Of  course  I  had  to  re- 
fer it  to  Cecilia,  and  she  positively  declines,  and  has  no 
reasons  to  give  ;  does  not  deny  that  George  is  good-looking 
and  sensible,  that  he  is  a  man  of  whose  preference  any 
girl  might  be  proud  ;  but  she  chooses  to  say  she  cannot 
love  him,  and  when  I  ask  why  she  cannot  love  him,  has  no 
other  answer  than  that  '  she  cannot  say.'  It  is  too  provok- 
ing." 

"  It  is  provoking,"  answered  Kenelm  ;  "  but  then  Love 
is  the  most  dunderheaded  of  all  the  passions  ;  it  never  will 
listen  to  reason.  The  very  rudiments  of  logic  are  unknown 
to  it.  '  Love  has  no  wherefore,'  says  one  of  those  Latin 
poets  who  wrote  love-verses  called  elegies — a  name  which 
we  moderns  appropriate  to  funeral  dirges.  For  my  own 
part,  I  can't  understand  how  any  one  can  be  expected  vol- 
untarily to  make  up  his  mind  to  go  out  of  his  mind.  And 
if  Miss  Travers  cannot  go  out  of  her  mind  because  George 


212  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

Belvoir  does,  you  could  not  argue   her  into  doing  so  if  you 
talked  till  doomsday." 

.  Travers  smiled  in  spite  of  himself,  but  he  answered 
gravely,  "Certainly  I  would  not  wish  Cissy  to  marry  any 
man  she  disliked  ;  but  she  does  not  dislike  George — no  girl 
could  ;  and  where  that  is  the  case,  a  girl  so  sensible,  so  af- 
fectionate, so  well  brought  up,  is  sure  to  love,  after  marriage, 
a  thoroughly  kind  and  estimable  man,  especially  when  she 
has  no  previous  attachment — which,  of  course,  Cissy  never 
had.  In  fact,  though  I  do  not  wish  to  force  my  daughter's 
will,  I  am  not  yet  disposed  to  give  up  my  own.  Do  you  un- 
derstand ? " 

''  Perfectly." 

"  I  am  the  more  inclined  to  a  marriage  so  desirable  in 
every  way,  because  when  Cissy  comes  out  in  London — 
which  she  has  not  yet  done — she  is  sure  to  collect  around 
her  face  and  her  presumptive  inheritance  all  the  handsome 
fortune-hunters  and  XXtX^di-vatcriens ;  and  if  in  love  there  is 
no  wherefore,  how  can  1  be  sure  that  she  may  not  fall  in 
love  with  a  scamp  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  maybe  sure  of  that,"  said  Kenelm.  "  Miss 
Travers  has  too  much  mind." 

"  Yes,  at  present  ;  but  did  you  not  say  that  in  love  peo- 
ple go  out  of  their  mind  ?" 

"  True  !  I  forgot  that." 

"  I  am  not  then  disposed  to  dismiss  poor  George's  offer 
with  a  decided  negative  ;  and  yet  it  would  be  unfair  to  mis- 
lead him  by  encouragement.  In  fact,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I 
know  how  to  reply." 

"You  think  Miss  Travers  does  not  dislike  George  Bel- 
voir, and  if  she  saw  more  of  him  would  like  him  better,  and 
it  would  be  good  for  her  as  well  as  for  him  not  to  put  an  end 
to  that  chance  ?  " 

"  Exactly  so." 

''Why  not  then  write,  '  My  dear  George, — You  have  my 
best  wishes,  but  my  daughter  does  not  seem  disposed  to 
marry  at  present.  Let  me  consider  your  letter  not  written, 
and  continue  on  the  same  terms  as  we  were  before.'  Per- 
haps, as  George  knows  Virgil,  you  might  find  your  own 
schoolboy  recollections  of  that  poet  useful  here,  and  add, 
'  Varium  et  mutahile  semper  fetnina  ;  ' — hackneyed,  but  true." 

"  My  dear  Chillingly,  your  suggestion  is  capital.  How 
the  deuce  at  your  age  have  you  contrived  to  know  the  world 
so  well?" 


KENELM    CHILLINGLY.  213 

Kenelm  answered  in  the  pathetic  tones  so  natural  to  his 
voice,  "By  being  only  a  looker-on  ;— alas  !  " 

Leopold  Travers  felt  much  relieved  after  he  had  written 
his  reply  to  George.  He  had  not  been  quite  so  in^^enuous 
in  his  revelation  to  Chillingly  as  he  may  have  seemed.  Con- 
scious, like  all  proud  and  fond  fathers,  of  his  daughter's  at- 
tractions, he  was  not  without  some  apprehension  that  Ken- 
elm  himself  might  entertain  an  ambition  at  variance  with 
that  of  George  Belvoir  :  if  so,  he  deemed  it  well  to  put  an 
end  to  3uch  ambition  while  yet  in  time — partly  because  his 
interest  was  already  pledged  to  George  ;  partly  because,  in 
rank  and  fortune,  George  was  the  better  match  ;  partly  be- 
cause George  was  of  the  same  political  party  as  himself — 
while  Sir  Peter,  and  probably  Sir  Peter's  heir,  espoused  the 
opposite  side  ;  and  partly  also  because,  with  all  his  personal 
liking  to  Kenelm,  Leopold  Travers,  as  a  very  sensible,  prac- 
tical'man  of  the  world,  Avas  not  sure  that  a  baronet's  heir  who 
tramped  the  country  on  foot  in  the  dress  of  a  petty  farmer, 
and  indulged  pugilistic  propensities  in  martial  encounters 
with  stalwart  farriers,  was  likely  to  make  a  safe  husband 
and  a  comfortable  son-in-law.  Kenelm's  words,  and  still 
more  his  manner,  convinced  Travers  that  any  apprehensions 
of  rivalry  that  he  had  previously  conceived  were  utterly 
groundless. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


The  same  evening,  after  dinner  (during  that  lovely  sum- 
mer month  they  dined  at  Xeesdale  Park  at  an  unfashionably 
early  hour),  Kenelm,  in  company  with  Travers  and  Cecilia, 
ascended  a  gentle  eminence  at  the  back  of  the  gardens,  on 
which  there  were  some  picturesque  ivy-grown  ruins  of  an 
ancient  priory,  and  commanding  the  best  view  of  a  glorious 
sunset  and  a  subject  landscape  of  vale  and  wood,  rivulet  and 
distant  hills. 

"  Is  the  delight  in  scenery,"  said  Kenelm,  "  really  an  ac- 
quired gift,  as  some  philosophers  tell  us  ?  is  it  true  that 
young  children  and  rude  savages  do  not  feel  it — that  the  eye 
must  be  educated  to  comprehend  its  charm,  and  that  the  eye 
can  be  only  educated  through  the  mind  ?" 

"  I    should    think    your     philosophers    are    right,"    said 


214  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

Travers.  "When  I  was  a  schoolboy,  T  thought  no  scenery 
was  like  the  fiat  of  a  cricket-ground  ;  when  I  hunted  at 
Melton,  I  thought  that  unpicturesque  country  more  beauti- 
ful than  Devonshire.  It  is  only  of  late  years  that  I  feel  a 
sensible  pleasure  in  scenery  for  its  own  sake,  apart  from  as- 
sociations of  custom  or  the  uses  to  which  we  apply  them." 

"  And  what  say  you.  Miss  Travers  ?  " 

"  I  scarcely  know  what  to  say,"  answered  Cecilia,  mus- 
ingly. "  I  can  remember  no  time  in  my  childhood  when  I 
did  not  feel  delight  in  that  which  seemed  to  me  beautiful  in 
scenery,  but  I  suspect  that  I  very  vaguely  distinguished  one 
kind  of  beauty  from  another.  A  common  field  with  daisies 
and  buttercups  was  beautiful  to  me  then,  and  I  doubt  if  I 
saw  anything  niore  beautiful  in  extensive  landscapes." 

"True,"  said  Kenelm  :  "it  is  not  in  early  childhood  that 
we  carry  the  sight  into  distance  ;  as  is  the  mind  so  is  the 
eye  ;  in  early  childhood  the  mind  revels  in  the  present,  and 
the  eye  rejoices  most  in  the  things  nearest  to  it.  I  don't 
think  in  childhood  that  we 

"  '  Watched  with  wistful  eyes  the  setting  sun.'  " 

"  Ah  !  what  a  world  of  thought  in  that  word  ^-wistful ! '  " 
murmured  Cecilia,  as  her  gaze  riveted  itself  on  the  western 
heavens,  towards  which  Kenelm  had  pointed  as  he  spoke, 
where  the  enlarging  orb  rested  half  its  disk  on  the  rim  of 
the  horizon. 

She  had  seated  herself  on  a  fragment  of  the  ruin,  backed 
by  the  hollows  of  a  broken  arch.  The  last  rays  of  the  sun 
lingered  on  her  young  face,  and  then  lost  themselves  in  the 
gloom  of  the  arch  behind.  There  was  a  silence  for  some 
minutes,  during  which  the  sun  had  sunk.  Rosy  clouds  in 
thin  flakes  still  floated,  momently  waning  ;  and  the  eve-star 
stijle  forth  steadfast,  bright,  and  lonely — nay,  lonely  not 
now  ;  that  sentinel  has  aroused  a  host. 

Said  a  voice,  "  No  sign  of  rain  yet,  Squire.  What  will 
become  of  the  turnips?  " 

"  Real  life  again  !  Who  can  escape  it  ?  "  muttered  Ken. 
'elm,  as  his  eyes  rested  on  the  burly  figure  of  the  Squire's 
bailiff. 

"Ha!  North,"  said  Travers,  "what  brings  you  here? 
No  bad  news,  I  hope." 

"Indeed,  yes,  Squire.     The  Durham  bull " 

"  The  Diu-ham  bull  !    What  of  him  ?    You  frighten  me." 

"Taken  bad.     Colic." 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  215 

"  Excuse  me,  Chillingly,"  cried  Travers  ;  "  I  must  be  off. 
A  most  valuable  animal,  and  no  one  I  can  trust  to  doctor 
him  but  myself." 

"That's  true  enough,"  said  the  bailiff,  admiringly. 
"There's  not  a  veterinary  in  the  county  like  the  Squire." 

Travers  was  already  gone,  and  the  panting  bailiff  had 
hard  work  to  catch  him  up. 

Kenelm  seated  himself  beside  Cecilia  on  the  ruined 
fragment. 

"  How  I  envy  your  father  !  "  said  he. 

"  Why  just  at  this  moment  ?  Because  he  knows  how  to 
doctor  the  bull  ?  "  said  Cecilia,  with  a  sweet  low  laugh. 

"  Well,  that  is  something  to  envy.  It  is  a  pleasure  to 
relieve  from  pain  any  of  God's  creatures — even  a  Durham 
bull." 

"  Indeed,  yes.     I  am  justly  rebuked." 

"On  the  contrary,  you  are  to  be  justly  praised.  Your 
question  suggested  to  me  an  amiable  sentiment  in  place  of 
the  selfish  one  which  was  uppermost  in  my  thoughts.  I  en- 
vied your  father  because  he  creates  for  himself  so  many  ob- 
jects of  interest ;  because  while  he  can  appreciate  the  mere 
sensuous  enjoyment  of  a  landscape  and  a  sunset,  he  can  find 
mental  excitement  in  turnip  crops  and  bulls.  Happy,  Miss 
Travers,  is  the  Practical  Man." 

"When  my  dear  father  was  as  young  as  you,  Mr.  Chil- 
lingly, I  am  sure  that  he  had  no  more  interest  in  turnips  and 
bulls  than  you  have.  I  do  not  doubt  that  some  day  you  will 
be  as  practical  as  he  is  in  that  respect." 

"  Do  you  think  so — sincerely  ?" 

Cecilia  made  no  answer. 

Kenelm  repeated  the  question. 

"Sincerely,  then,  I  do  not  know  whether  you  will  take 
interest  in  precisely  the  same  things  that  interest  my  father; 
but  there  are  other  things  than  turnips  and  cattle  which 
belong  to  what  you  call  '  practical  life,'  and  in  these  you  will 
take  interest,  as  you  took  it  in  the  fortunes  of  Will  Somers 
and  Jessie  Wiles." 

"  That  was  no  practical  interest.  I  got  nothing  by  it. 
But  even  if  that  interest  were  practical, — ^I  mean  productive, 
as  cattle  and  turnip  crops  are, — a  succession  of  Somerses 
and  Wileses  is  not  to  be  hoped  for.  History  never  repeats 
itself." 

"  May  I  answer  you,  though  very  humbly?" 

*'  Miss  Travers,  the  wisest  man  that   ever  existed  nevel 


2l6  KENELM    CHILLINGLY. 

was  wise  enough  to  know  woman;  but  I  think  most  men 
ordinarily  wise  will  agree  in  this,  that  woman  is  by  no  means 
a  humble  creature,  and  that  Avhen  she  says  she  '  answers 
very  humbly,'  she  does  not  mean  what  she  says.  Permit  me 
to  entreat  you  to  answer  very  loftily." 

Cecilia  laughed  and  blushed.  The  laugh  was  musical  ; 
the  blusli  was — what  ?  Let  any  man,  seated  beside  a  girl 
like  Cecilia  at  starry  twilight,  find  the  right  epithet  for  that 
blush.  I  pass  it  by  epithetless.  But  she  answered,  firmly 
though  sweetly  : 

"Are  there  not  things  very  practical,  and  affecting  the 
happiness,  not  of  one  or  two  individuals,  but  of  innumerable 
thousands,  in  which  a  man  like  Mr.  Chillingly  cannot  fail  to 
feel  interest,  long  before  he  is  my  father's  age  ?" 

"  Forgive  me  ;  you  do  not  answer — you  question.  I 
imitate  you,  and  what  are  those  things  as  applicable  to  a 
man  like  Mr.  Chillinglv?" 

Cecilia  gatlicred  herself  up,  as  with  the  desire  to  express 
a  great  deal  in  short  substance,  and  then  said  : 

"  In  the  expression  of  thought,  literature  ;  in  the  conduct 
of  action,  politics." 

Kenelm  Chillingly  stared,  dumfounded.  I  suppose  the 
greatest  enthusiast  for  Woman's  Rights  could  not  assert 
more  reverentially  than  he  did  the  cleverness  of  woman  ;  but 
among  the  things  which  the  cleverness  of  woman  did  not 
achieve,  he  had  always  placed  "  laconics."  "No  woman," 
he  was  wont  to  say,  "  ever  invented  an  axiom  or  a  proverb." 

"Miss  Travers,"  he  said  at  last,  "before  we  proceed 
further,  vouchsafe  to  tell  me  if  that  very  terse  reply  of  yours 
is  spontaneous  and  original,  or  whether,  you  have  not  bor- 
rowed it  from  some  book  which  I  have  not  chanced  to  read." 

Cecilia  pondered  honestly,  and  then  said,  "  I  don't  think 
it  is  from  any  book  ;  but  I  owe  so  many  of  my  thoughts  to 
Mrs.  Campion,  and  she  lived  so  much  among  clever  men, 
that " 

"  I  see  it  all,  and  accept  vour  definition,  no  matter  whence 
it  came.  You  think  I  might  become  an  author  or  a  politi- 
cian. Did  you  ever  read  an  essay  by  a  living  author  called 
'Motive  Power'?" 

"No." 

"  That  essay  is  designed  to  intimate  that  without  motive 
power  a  man,  whatever  his  talents  or  his  culture,  does  noth- 
ing practical.  The  mainsprings  of  motive  power  are  Want 
and  Ambition.     They  are  absent  from  my  mechanism.     By 


KEN  ELM    CHILLINGLY.  217 

the  accident  of  birth  I  do  not  require  bread  and  cheese  ;  by 
the  accident  of  temperament  and  of  philosophical  culture  I 
care  nothing  about  praise  or  blame.  But  without  want  of 
bread  and  cheese,  and  with  a  most  stolid  indifference  to  praise 
and  blame,  do  you  honestly  think  that  a  man  will  do  any- 
thing practical  in  literature  or  politics  ?    Ask  Mrs.  Campion." 

"  1  Avill  not  ask  her.     Is  the  sense  of  duty  nothing  ? " 

"Alas  !  we  interpret  duty  so  variously.  Of  mere  duty, 
as  we  commonly  understand  the  word,  I  do  not  think  I  shall 
fail  more  than  other  men.  But  for  the  fair  development  of 
all  the  good  that  is  in  us,  do  you  believe  that  we  should 
adopt  some  line  of  conduct  against  which  our  whole  heart 
rebels  ?  Can  you  say  to  the  clerk,  '  Be  a  poet '  ? — Can  you 
say  to  the  poet,  '  Be  a  clerk'  ?  It  is  no  more  to  the  happi- 
ness of  a  man's  being  to  order  him  to  take  to  one  career  when 
his  whole  heart  is  set  on  another,  than  it  is  to  order  him  to 
marrv  one  woman  when  it  is  to  another  woman  that  his 
heart  will  turn." 

Cecilia  here  winced  and  looked  away.  Kenelm  had  more 
tact  than  most  men  of  his  age — that  is,  a  keener  perception 
of  subjects  to  avoid  ;  but  then  Kenelm  had  a  wretched  habit 
of  forgetting  the  person  he  talked  to  and  talking  to  himself. 
Utterly  oblivious  of  George  Belvoir,  he  was  talking  to  him- 
self now.  Not  then  observing  the  effect  his  mal-a-propos 
dogma  had  produced  on  his  listener,  he  went  on  :  "Happi- 
ness is  a  word  very  lightly  used.  It  may  mean  little — it  may 
mean  much.  By  the  word  happiness  I  would  signify,  not 
the  momentarv  joy  of  a  child  who  gets  a  plaything,  but  the 
lasting  harmonv  between  our  inclinations  and  our  objects; 
and  without  that  harmony  we  are  a  discord  to  ourselves,  we 
are  incompletions,  we  are  failures.  Yet  there  are  plenty  of 
advisers  who  say  to  us,  '  It  is  a  duty  to  be  a  discord.'  I 
deny  it." 

Here  Cecilia  rose,  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  It  is  getting 
late.     We  must  go  homeward." 

They  descended  the  green  eminence  slowly,  and  at  first 
in  silence.  The  bats,  emerging  from  the  ivied  ruins  they 
left  behind,  flitted  and  skimmed  before  them,  chasing  the 
insects  of  the  night.  A  moth,  escaping  from  its  pursuer, 
alighted  on  Cecilia's  breast,  as  if  for  refuge. 

"The  bats  are  practical,"  said  Kenelm  :  "they  are  hungry, 
and  their  motive  power  to-night  is  strong.     Their  interest 
is  in  the  insects  they  chase.     They  have  no  interest  in  the 
stars  ;  but  the  stars  lure  the  moth." 
10 


2i8  KEN  ELM   CfllLLINGLY. 

Cecilia  drew  lier  slight  scarf  over  the  moth,  so  that  it 
might  not  tiy  off  and  become  a  prey  to  the  bats.  "  Yet,"  said 
she,  "the  moth  is  practical  too." 

"Ay,  just  now,  since  it  has  found  an  asylum  from  the 
danger  that  threatened  it  in  its  course  towards  the  stars." 

Cecilia  felt  the  beating  of  her  heart,  upon  which  lay  the 
moth  concealed.  Did  she  think  that  a  deeper  and  more 
tender  meaning  than  they  outwardly  expressed  was  couched 
in  these  words?  If  so,  she  erred.  They  now  neared  the 
garden  gate,  and  Kenclm  paused  as  he  opened  it.  "  See," 
he  said,  "the  moon  has  just  risen  over  those  dark  firs,  mak- 
ing the  still  night  stiller.  Is  it  not  strange  that  we  mortals, 
placed  amid  perpetual  agitation  and  tumult  and  strife,  as  if 
our  natural  element,  conceive  a  sense  of  holiness  in  the 
images  antagonistic  to  our  real  life — I  mean  in  images  of 
repose  ?  I  feel  at  the  moment  as  if  I  suddenly  were  made 
better,  now  that  heaven  and  earth  have  suddenly  become 
yet  more  tranquil.  I  am  now  conscious  6f  a  purer  and 
sweeter  moral  than  either  I  or  you  drew  from  the  insect  you 
have  sheltered.     I  must  come  to  the  poets  to  express  it  : 

'  The  desire  of  the  motli  for  llie  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow  ; 
The  devotion  to  somcthiitg  afar 
From  the  sphere  of  ouj;  sorrow.* 

Oh,  that  something  afar  !  that  something  afar !  never  to  be 
reached  on  this  earth — never,  never!" 

There  was  such  a  wail  in  that  cry  from  the  man's  heart 
that  Cecilia  could  not  resist  the  impulse  of  a  divine  compas- 
sion. She  laid  her  hand  on  his,  and  looked  on  the  dark 
mildness  of  his  upward  face  with  eyes  that  heaven  meant  to 
he  wells  of  comfort  to  grieving  man.  At  the  light  touch  of 
that  hand  Kenelm  started,  looked  down,  and  met  those 
soothing  eyes. 

"  I  am  happy  to  tell  you  that  I  have  saved  my  Durham," 
cried  out  Mr.  Travers  from  the  oth(;r  side  of  the  gate. 


CHAPTER   XX. 


As  Kenelm  that  night  retired  to  his  own  room,  he  paused 
on  the  landing-place  opposite  to  the  portrait  which  Mr. 
Travers  had  consigned  to  that  desolate  exile.     This  daugh- 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  219 

ter  of  a  race  dishonored  in  its  extinction  might  well  have 
been  the  glory  of  the  house  she  had  entered  as  a  bride.  The 
countenance  was  singularly  beautiful,  and  of  a  character  of 
beauty  eminently  patrician  ;  there  was  in  its  expression  a 
gentleness  and  modesty  not  often  found  in  the  female  por- 
traits of  Sir  Peter  Lely  ;  and  in  the  eyes  and  in  the  smile  a 
wonderful  aspect  of  innocent  happiness. 

"What  a  speaking  homily,"  soliloquized  Kenelm,  address- 
ing the  picture,  "against  the  ambition  thy  fair  descendant 
Avould  awake  in  me,  art  thou,  O  lovely  image  !  For  genera- 
tions thy  beauty  lived  in  this  canvas,  a  thing  of  joy,  the  pride 
of  the  race  it  adorned.  Owner  after  owner  said  to  admiring 
guests, '  Yes,  a  fine  portrait,  by  Lely  ;  she  was  my  ancestress 
— a  Fletwode  of  Fletwode.'  Now,  lest  guests  should  remem- 
ber that  a  Fletwode  married  a  Travers,  thou  art  thrust  out 
of  sight  ;  not  even  Leiy's  art  can  make  thee  of  value,  can 
redeem  thine  innocent  self  from  disgrace.  And  the  last  of 
the  Fletwodes,  doubtless  the  most  ambitious  of  all — the  most 
bent  on  restoring  and  regilding  the  old  lordly  name — dies  a 
felon  ;  the  infamy  of  one  living  man  so  large  that  it  can  blot 
out  the  honor  of  the  dead."  He  turned  his  eyes  from  the 
smile  of  the  portrait,  entered  his  own  room,  and,  seating 
himself  by  the  writing-table,  drew  blotting-book  and  note- 
paper  towards  him,  took  up  the  pen,  and,  instead  of  writing, 
fell  into  deep  reverie.  There  was  a  slight  frown  on  his 
brow,  on  which  frowns  were  rare.  He  was  very  angry  with 
himself. 

"  Kenelm,"  he  said,  entering  into  his  customary  dialogue 
with  that  self,  "it  becomes  you  forsooth,  to  moralize  about 
the  honor  of  races  which  have  no  affinity  with  you.  Son  of 
Sir  Peter  Chillingly,  look  at  home.  Are  you  quite  sure  that 
you  have  not  said  or  done  or  looked  a  something  that  may 
bring  trouble  to  the  hearth  on  which  you  are  received  as 
guest?  What  right  had  you  to  be  moaning  forth  your  ego- 
tisms, not  remembering  that  your  words  fell  on  compassion- 
ate ears,  and  that  such  words,  heard  at  moonlight  by  a  girl 
whose  heart  they  move  to  pity,  may  have  dangers  for  her 
peace?  Shame  on  you,  Kenelm  !  shame!  knowing  too  what 
her  father's  wish  is  ;  and  knowing  too  that  you  have  not  the 
excuse  of  desiring  to  win  that  fair  ci'eature  for  yourself. 
What  do  you  mean,  Kenelm  !  I  don't  hear  you  ;  speak  out. 
Oh,  '  that  I  am  a  vain  coxcomb  to  fancy  tliat  she  could  take 
a  fancy  to  me  ' — well,  perhaps  I  am  ;  I  hope  so  earnestly  ; 
and,  at  all  events,  there  has  been  and  shall  be  no  time  for 


220  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

much  mischief.  We  are  off  to-morrow,  Kenelm  ;  bestir  your- 
self and  paclv  up,  write  your  letters,  and  then  '  put  out  the 
light— put  out  the  light  ! '  " 

But  this  converser  with  himself  did  not  immediately  set 
to  work,  as  agreed  upon  by  that  twofold  one.  He  rose  and 
walked  restlessly  to  and  fro  the  floor,  stopping  ever  and 
anon  to  look  at  the  pictures  on  the  walls. 

Several  of  the  worst  painted  of  the  family  portraits  had 
been  consigned  to  the  room  tenanted  by  Kenelm,  which, 
though  both  the  oldest  and  largest  bed-chamber  in  the  house, 
was  always  appropriated  to  a  bachelor  male  guest,  partly 
because  it  was  without  dressing-room,  remote,  and  only 
approached  by  the  small  back  staircase,  to  the  landing-place 
of  which  Arabella  had  been  banislied  in  disgrace  ;  and  part- 
ly because  it  had  the  reputation  of  being  haunted,  and  ladies 
are  more  alarmed  by  that  superstition  than  men  are  sup- 
posed to  be.  The  portraits  on  which  Kenelm  now  pauserl 
to  gaze  were  of  various  dates,  from  the  reign  of  Elizabeth 
to  that  of  George  III.,  none  of  them  by  eminent  artists,  and 
none  of  them  the  effigies  of  ancestors  who  had  left  names  in 
history — in  short,  such  portraits  as  are  often  seen  in  the 
country  houses  of  well-born  squires.  One  family  type  of 
feature  or  expression  pervaded  most  of  these  portraits — 
features  clear-cut  and  hardy,  expression  open  and  honest. 
And  though  not  one  of  those  dead  men  had  been  famous, 
each  of  them  had  contributed  his  unostentatious  share,  in 
his  own  simple  way,  to  the  movements  of  his  time.  That  wor- 
thy in  ruff  and  corselet  had  manned  his  own  ship  at  his  own 
cost  against  the  Ariuada  ;  never  had  been  repaid  by  the  thrif- 
ty Burleigh  the  expenses  which  had  harassed  him  and  dimin- 
islied  his  patrimony  ;  never  had  been  even  knighted.  That 
gentleman  with  short  straight  hair,  which  overhung  his 
forehead,  leaning  on  his  sword  with  one  hand,  and  a  book 
open  in  the  other  hand,  had  served  as  representative  of  his 
county  town  in  the  Long  Parliament,  fought  under  Crom- 
well at  Marstcin  Moor,  and  resisting  the  Protector  when  he 
removed  the  "  bauble,"  was  one  of  the  patriots  incarcerated 
in  "  Hell-hole."  He,  too,  had  diminished  his  patrimony, 
maintaining  two  troopers  and  two  horses  at  his  own  charge, 
and  "  Hell-hole  "  was  all  he  got  in  return.  A  thii^d,  with  a 
sleeker  expression  of  countenance,  and  a  large  wig,  flourish- 
ing in  the  quiet  times  of  Charles  H.,  had  only  been  a  justice 
of  the  peace,  but  his  alert  look  showed  tliat  he  had  been  a 
very  active  one.     lie  had  neither  increased  nor  diminished 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  221 

his  ancestral  fortune.  A  fourth,  in  the  costume  of  William 
III.'s  reign,  had  somewhat  added  to  the  patrimony  by  be- 
coming a  lawyer.  He  must  have  been  a  successful  one. 
He  is  inscribed  "Serjeant  at  law."  A  fifth,  a  lieutenant  in 
the  army,  was  killed  at  Blenheim  ;  his  portrait  was  that  of 
a  very  young  and  handsome  man,  taken  the  year  before  his 
death.  His  wife's  portrait  is  placed  in  the  drawing-room, 
because  it  was  painted  by  Kneller.  She  was  handsome  too, 
and  married  again  a  nobleman,  whose  portrait,  of  course, 
was  not  in  the  family  collection.  Here  there  was  a  gap  in 
chronological  arrangement,  the  lieutenant's  heir  being  an 
infant  ;  but  in  the  time  of  George  II.  another  Travers  ap- 
peared as  the  governor  of  a  West  India  colony.  His  son 
took  part  in  a  very  different  movement  of  the  age.  He  is 
represented  old,  venerable,  with  white  hair,  and  underneath 
his  effigy  is  inscribed,  "  Follower  of  Wesley."  His  successor 
completes  the  collection.  He  is  in  naval  uniform  ;  he  is  in 
full  length,  and  one  of  his.  legs  is  a  wooden  one.  He  is 
Captain,  R.N.  ;  and  inscribed,  "  Fought  under  Nelson  at 
Trafalgar."  That  portrait  would  have  found  more  dignified 
place  in  the  reception-rooms  if  the  face  had  not  been  for- 
biddingly ugly,  and  the  picture  itself  a  villanous  daub. 

"  I  see,"  said  Kenelm,  stopping  short,  "  why  Cecilia 
Travers  has  been  reared  to  talk  of  duty  as  a  practical  in- 
terest in  life.  These  men  of  a  former  time  seem  to  have 
lived  to  discharge  a  duty,  and  not  to  follow  the  progress  of 
the  age  in  the  chase  of  a  money-bag — except  perhaps  one, 
but  then  to  be  sure  he  was  a  lawyer.  Kenelm,  rouse  up  and 
listen  to  me  ;  whatever  we  are,  whether  active  or  indolent, 
is  not  my  favorite  maxim  a  just  and  a  true  one — viz.,  'A 
good  man  does  good  by  living  '  ?  But,  for  that,  he  must  be 
a  harmony,  and  not  a  discord.  Kenelm,  you  lazy  dog,  we 
must  pack  up." 

Kenelm  then  refilled  his  portmanteau,  and  labelled  and 
directed  it  to  Exmundham,  after  which  he  wrote  these  three 
notes  : 

Note   I. 
TO   THE   MARCHIONESS    OF   GLENALVON. 

"My  dear  Friend  and  Monitress,— I  have  left  your  last  letter  a 
month  unanswered.  I  could  not  reply  to  your  congratulations  on  the  event 
of  my  attaining  the  age  of  twenty-one.  That  event  is  a  conventional  sham, 
and  you  know  how  I  abhor  shams  and  conventions.  The  truth  is,  that  I  am 
either  much  younger  than  twenty-one  or  much  older.     As  to  all  designs  on 


222  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

my  peace  in  standing  for  our  county  at  the  next  election,  I  wished  to  defeat 
tiiem,  and  I  liave  done  so ;  anil  now  I  have  commenced  a  course  of  travel. 
I  had  intended  on  starling  to  confine  it  to  my  nalive  country.  Intentions 
are  mutable.  I  am  going  abroad.  You  shall  hear  of  my  whereabout.  I 
write  this  from  the  house  of  Leopold  Travers,  wiio,  I  unilerstand  from  his 
fair  daughter,  is  a  connection  of  yours  ; — a  man  to  be  highly  esteemed  and 
cordially  liked. 

"  No,  in  spite  of  all  your  flattering  predictions,  I  shall  never  be  anything 
in  this  life  more  distinguisiied  tlian  what  I  am  now.  Lady  Glenalvon  allows 
me  to  sign  myself  her  grateful  friend,  K.  C." 

Note  2. 

"Dear  Cousin  Mivers, — I  am  going  abroad.  I  may  want  money; 
for,  in  order  to  rouse  motive  power  within  nie,  1  mean  to  want  money  if  I 
can.  Wlien  1  was  a  boy  of  sixteen  you  offered  me  money  to  write  attacks 
upon  veteran  authors  for  'The  Londoner.'  Will  you  give  me  money  now 
for  a  similar  display  of  that  grand  New  Idea  of  oiu-  generation — viz.,  tliat  the 
less  a  man  knows  of  a  subject  the  better  he  understands  it  ?  I  am  about  to 
travel  into  countries  which  I  have  never  seen,  and  among  races  I  have  nevev 
known.  My  arbitrary  judgments  on  both  will  be  invaluable  to  '  The  Lon- 
doner '  from  a  Special  Correspondent  who  shares  your  respect  for  the  anony- 
mous, and  whose  name  is  never  to  be  divulged.  Direct  your  answer  by 
return  to  xc\t,  paste  restante^  Calais. — Yours  truly,  '  K.  C." 

Note  3. 

"  My  dear  Father, — I  found  your  letter  here,  whence  I  depart  to- 
morrow.     Excuse  haste.      I  go  abroad,  and  shall  write  to  you  from  Calais. 

"  I  admire  Leopold  Travers  very  much.  After  all,  how  mucli  of  self- 
balance  there  is  in  a  true  English  gentleman  !  Toss  him  up  and  down  wiiere 
you  will,  and  he  always  alights  on  his  feet — a  gentleman.  He  has  one  child, 
a  daughter  named  Cecilia — handsome  enough  to  allure  into  wedlock  any 
mortal  whom  Decimus  Roach  had  not  convinced  that  in  celibacy  lay  the  right 
'  Approach  to  the  Angels.'  Moreover,  she  is  a  girl  whom  one  can  talk  with. 
Even  you  could  talk  with  her.  Travers  wishes  her  to  marry  a  very  respect- 
able, good  looking,  promising  gentleman,  in  every  way  'suitable,'  as  tiiey 
say.  And  if  she  does,  she  will  rival  that  pink  and  perfection  of  polished 
womanhood,  Lady  Glenalvon.  I  send  you  back  my  portmanteau.  I  have 
]oretty  well  exhausted  my  experience-money,  but  have  not  yet  encroached  on 
my  monthly  allowance.  I  mean  still  to  live  ii]ion  that,  eking  it  out,  if  ne- 
cessary, by  the  sweat  of  my  brow — or  iirains.  Uut  if  any  case  requiring  extra 
funds  should  occur — a  case  in  which  that  extra  would  do  such  real  good  to 
another  that  I  feel  yon  would  do  it — why,  I  must  draw  a  check  on  your 
bankers.  But  understand  that  is  your  expense,  not  mine,  and  it  is  you  who 
are  to  be  repaid  in  heaven.  Dear  father,  how  I  do  love  and  honor  you  every 
day  more  and  more  !  Promise  you  not  to  propose  to  any  young  lady  till  I 
come  first  to  you  for  consent  ! — oh,  my  dear  father,  how  could  you  doubt  it? 
how  doubt  that  I  could  not  be  happy  with  any  wife  whom  you  could  not  love 
as  a  daughter  ?  Acce]->t  that  promise  as  sacred.  But  I  wish  you  had  asked 
me  something  in  which  obedience  was  not  much  too  facile  to  be  a  test  of 
duty.     I  could  not  have  obeyed  you  more  cheeerfully  if  you  had  asked  me  to 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  223 

promise  never  to  propose  to  any  young  lady  at  all.  Had  you  asked  me  to 
promise  that  I  would  renounce  the  dignity  of  reason  for  the  frenzy  of  love,  or 
the  freedom  of  man  for  the  servitude  of  husband,  then  I  might  have  sought 
to  achieve  the  impossible  ;  but  I  should  have  died  in  the  efiort  !— and  thou 
wouldst  have  known  that  remorse  which  haunts  the  bed  of  the  tyrant. — Your 
affectionate  son,  K.  C." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


The  next  morning  Kenelm  surprised  the  party  at  break- 
fast by  appearing  in  the  coarse  habiliments  in  which  he  had 
first  made  his  host's  acquaintance.  He  did  not  glance  to- 
wards Cecilia  when  he  announced  his  departure  ;  but,  his 
eye  resting  on  Mrs.  Campion,  he  smiled,  perhaps  a  little 
sadly,  at  seeing  her  countenance  brighten  up  and  hearing 
her  give  a  short  sigh  of  relief.  Travers  tried  hard  to  in- 
duce him  to  stay  a  few  days  longer,  but  Kenelm  was  firm. 
"  The  summer  is  wearing  away,"  said  he,  "  and  I  have  far  to 
go  before  the  flowers  fade  and  the  snows  fall.  On  the  third 
night  from  this  I  shall  sleep  on  foreign  soil." 

"  You  are  going  abroad,  then  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Campion. 

*'  Yes." 

"  A  sudden  resolution,  Mr.  Chillingly.  The  other  day 
you  talked  of  visiting  the  Scotch  lakes." 

"  True  ;  but,  on  reflection,  they  will  be  crowded  with 
holiday  tourists,  many  of  whom  I  shall  probably  know. 
Abroad  I  shall  be  free,  for  I  shall  be  unknown." 

"  I  suppose  you  will  be  back  for  the  hunting  season," 
said  Travers. 

"  I  think  not.     I  do  not  hunt  foxes." 

"  Probably  we  shall  at  all  events  meet  in  London,"  said 
Travers.  "  I  think,  after  long  rustication,  that  a  season  or 
two  in  the  bustling  capital  may  be  a  salutary  change  for 
mind  as  well  as  for  body  ;  and  it  is  time  that  Cecilia  were 
presented  and  her  court-dress  specially  commemorated  in 
the  columns  of  the  '  Morning  Post.'  " 

Cecilia  was  seemingly  too  busied  behind  the  tea-urn  to 
heed  this  reference  to  her  debut. 

•'■  I  shall  miss  you  terribly,"  cried  Travers,  a  few  mo- 
ments afterwards,  with  a  hearty  emphasis.  "  I  declare  that 
you  have  quite  unsettled  me.  Your  quaint  sayings  will  be 
ringing  in  my  ears  long  after  you  are  gone." 


«24 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 


There  was  a  rustle  as  of  a  woman's  dress  in  sudden 
change  of  movement  behind  the  tea-urn. 

"Cissy,"  said  Mrs.  Campion,  "are  we  ever  to  have  our 
tea?" 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  answered  a  voice  behind  the  urn.  "  I 
hear  Pompey"  (tlie  Skye  terrier)  "whining  on  the  lawn. 
They  have  shut  him  out.     I  will  be  back  presently." 

Cecilia  rose  and  was  gone.  Mrs.  Campion  took  her 
place  at  the  tea  urn. 

"  It  is  quite  absurd  in  Cissy  to  be  so  fond  of  that  hideous 
dog,"  said  Travers,  petulantly. 

"  Its  hideousness  is  its  beauty,"  returned  Mrs.  Campion, 
laughing.  "  Mr.  Belvoir  selected  it  for  her  as  having  the 
longest  back  and  the  shortest  legs  of  any  dog  he  could  find 
in  Scotland." 

"Ah,  George  gave  it  to  her  ;  I  forgot  that,"  said  Travers, 
laughing  pleasantly. 

It  was  some  minutes  before  Miss  Travers  returned  with 
the  Skye  terrier,  and  she  seemed  to  have  recovered  her 
spirits  in  regaining  that  ornamental  accession  to  the  party — 
talking  very  quickly  and  gayly,  and  with  flushed  cheeks, 
like  a  young  person  excited  by  her  own  overflow  of  mirth. 

But  when,  half  an  hour  afterwards,  Kenelm  took  leave 
of  her  and  Mrs.  Campion  at  the  hall-door,  the  flush  was 
gone,  her  lips  were  tightly  compressed,  and  her  parting 
words  were  not  audible.  Then,  as  his  figure  (side  by  side 
with  her  father,  who  accompanied  his  guest  to  the  lodge) 
swiftly  passed  across  the  lawn  and  vanished  amid  the  trees 
beyond,  Mrs.  Campion  wound  a  mother-like  arm  around 
her  waist  and  kissed  her.  Cecilia  shivered  and  turned  her 
face  to  her  friend  smiling;  but  such  a  smile, — one  of  those 
smiles  that  seem  brimful  of  tears. 

"  Thank  you,  dear,"  she  said,  meekly  ;  and,  gliding  away 
towards  the  flower-garden,  lingered  awhile  by  the  gate 
which  Kcnclm  had  opened  the  night  before.  Then  she 
went  with  languid  steps  up  the  green  slopes  towards  the 
ruined  priory. 


BOOK  IV. 


CHAPTER  I. 

It  is  somewhat  more  than  a  year  and  a  half  since 
Kenelm  Chillingly  left  England,  and  the  scene  now  is  in 
London,  during  that  earlier  and  more  sociable  season 
which  precedes  the  Easter  holidays — season  in  which  the 
charm  of  intellectual  companionship  is  not  yet  withered 
away  in  the  heated  atmosphere  of  crowded  rooms — season 
in  which  parties  are  small,  and  conversation  extends  beyond 
the  interchange  of  commonplace  with  one's  next  neighbor 
at  a  dinner-table — season  in  which  you  have  a  fair  chance 
of  finding  your  warmest  friends  ncjt  absorbed  by  the  su- 
perior claims  of  their  chilliest  acquaintances. 

There  was  what  is  called  a  conversazione  at  the  house  of 
one  of  those  Whig  noblemen  who  yet  retain  the  graceful  art 
of  bringing  agreeable  people  together,  and  collecting  round 
them  the  true  aristocracy,  which  combines  letters  and  art 
and  science  with  the  hereditary  rank  and  political  distinc- 
tion— that  art  which  was  the  happy  secret  of  the  Lans- 
downes  and  Hollands  of  the  last  generation.  Lord  Beau- 
manoir  was  himself  a  genial,  well-read  man,  a  good  judge  of 
art,  and  a  pleasant  talker.  He  had  a  charming  wife,  de- 
voted to  him  and  to  her  children,  but  with  enough  love  of 
general  approbation  to  make  herself  as  popular  in  the  fash- 
ionable world  as  if  she  sought  in  its  gayeties  a  refuge  from 
the  dullness  of  domestic  life. 

Among  the  guests  at  the  Beaumanoirs'  this  evening  were 
two  men,  seated  apart  in  a  small  room,  and  conversing  fa- 
miliarly. The  one  might  be  about  fifty-four  ;  he  was  tall, 
strongly  built,  but  not  corpulent,  somewhat  bald,  with  black 
eyebrows,  dark  eyes,  bright  and  keen,  mobile  lips,  round 
which  there  played  a  shrewd  and  sometimes  sarcastic  smile. 
This  gentleman,  the  Right  Hon.  Gerard  Danvers,  was  a  very 
influential  Member  of  Parliament.  He  had,  when  young 
for  English  public  lite,  attained  to  high  office  ;  but — partly 


226  KEN  ELM   CJHI.LINGLY. 

from  a  great    distaste  to  the  drudgery  of    administration  ; 
partly  from  a  pride  of  temperament,  which  unfitted  him  for 
the  subordination  that  a  Cabinet  owes  to  its  chief  ;  partly, 
also,  from  a  not  uncommon  kind  of  epicurean  philosophy, 
at  once  joyous  and  cynical,  which  sought  the  pleasures  of 
life  and  held  very  cheap  its  honors — he  had  obstinately  de- 
clined to  re-enter  office,  and  only  spoke  on  rare  occasions. 
On  such  occasions  he  carried  great  weight,  and,  by  the  brief 
expression  of    his  opinions,  commanded    more  votes   than 
many  an  orator  infinitely  more  eloquent.      Despite  his  want 
of  ambition,  he  was  fond  of  power  in  his  own  way — power 
over  the  people  who  had  power  ;  and  in  the  love  of  political 
intrigue  he  found  an  amusement  for  an  intellect  very  sub- 
tle and  very  active.     At  this  moment  he  was  bent  on  a  new 
combination  among  the  leaders  of  different  sections  in  the 
same  party,  by  which  certain  veterans  were  to  retire,  and 
certain  younger  men  to  be  admitted  into  the  Administration. 
It  was  an  amiable  featiU'C  in  his  cliaracter  that  he  had  a  sym- 
pathy with  the  young,  and  had  helped  to  bring  into  Parlia- 
ment, as  well  as  into  office,  some  of  the  ablest  of  a  genera- 
tion later  than  his  own.     He  gave  them  sensible  counsel, 
was  pleased  when  they  succeeded,  and    encouraged   them 
when    they   failed— always   provided    that   they    had   stuff 
enough  in  them  to  redeem  the  failure  ;  if    not,  he  gently 
dropped  them  from  his  intimacy,  but  maintained  sufficiently 
familiar  terms  with  them  to  be  pretty  sure  that  he  could  in- 
ffuence  their  votes  whenever  he  so  desired. 

The  gentleman  with  whom  he  was  now  conversing  was 
young,  about  fivc-and-twenty— not  yet  in  Parlianumt,  but 
with  an  intense  desire  to  obtain  a  seat  in  it,  and  with  one  of 
those  reputations  which  a  youth  carries  away  from  school 
and  ccjllcge,  justified,  not  by  honors  purely  academical,  but 
by  an  impressicm  of  ability  and  power  created  on  the  minds 
of  his  contemporaries,  and  indorsed  by  his  elders.  He  had 
done  little  at  the  university  beyond  taking  a  fair  degree — 
except  acquiring  at  the  Debating  Society  the  fame  of  an  ex- 
ceedingly ready  and  adroit  speaker.  On  quitting  college  he 
had  written  one  or  two  political  articles  in  a  quarterly  re- 
view which  created  a  sensation  ;  and  though  belonging  to 
no  profession,  and  having  but  a  small  yet  independent  in- 
come, society  was  very  civil  to  him,  as  to  a  man  who  would 
some  day  or  other  attain  a  position  in  which  he  could  dam- 
age his  enemies  and  serve  his  friends.  Something  in  this 
young  man's  countenance  and  bearing  tended  to  favor  the 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  227 

credit  given  to  his  ability  and  his  promise.  In  his  counte- 
nance there  was  no  beauty  ;  in  his  bearing  no  elegance.  But 
in  tliat  countenance  there  was  vigor — there  was  energy — - 
there  was  audacity.  A  forehead  wide  but  low,  protuberant 
in  those  organs  over  the  browwliich  indicate  the  qualities 
fitted  for  perception  and  judgment — qualities  for  every-day 
life  ;  eyes  of  the  clear  English  blue,  small,  somewhat  sunken, 
vigilant,  sagacious,  penetrating  ;  a  long  straight  upper  lip, 
significant  of  resolute  purpose  ;  a  mouth  in  which  a  student 
of  physiognomy  would  have  detected  a  dangerous  charm. 
The  smile  was  captivating,  but  it  was  artificial,  surrounded 
by  dimples,  and  displaying  teeth  white,  small,  strong,  but 
divided  from  each  other.  The  expression  of  that  smile  would 
have  been  frank  and  candid  to  all  who  failed  to  notice  that 
it  was  not  in  harmony  with  the  brooding  forehead  and  the 
steely  eye— that  it  seemed  to  stand  distinct  from  the  rest  of 
the  face,  like  a  feature  that  had  learned  its  part.  There  was 
that  physical  power  in  the  back  of  the  head  which  belongs  to 
men  who  make  tlieir  way  in  life  — combative  and  destructive. 
All  gladiators  have  it  ;  so  have  great  debaters  and  great  re- 
formers— that  is,  reformers  who  destroy,  but  not  necessarily 
reconstruct.  So,  too,  in  the  bearing  of  the  man  there  was  a 
hardy  self-confidence,  much  too  simple  and  unaffected  for 
his  worst  enemy  to  call  it  self-conceit.  It  was  the  bearing 
of  one  who  knew  how  to  maintain  personal  dignity  without 
seeming  to  care  about  it.  Never  servile  to  the  great,  never 
arrogant  to  the  little  ;  so  little  over-refined  that  it  was  never 
vulgar, — a  popular  bearing. 

The  room  in  which  these  gentlemen  were  seated  was 
separated  from  the  general  suite  of  apartments  by  a  lobby 
off  the  landing-place,  and  served  for  Lady  Beaumanoir's 
boudoir.  Very  pretty  it  was,  but  simply  furnished,  with 
chintz  draperies.  The  walls  were  adorned  with  drawings 
in  water-colors,  and  precious  specimens  of  china  on  fanciful 
Parian  brackets.  At  one  corner,  by  a  window  that  looked 
southward  and  opened  on  a  spacious  balcony  glazed  in  and 
filled  with  flowers,  stood  one  of  those  hisfh  trellised  screen:^-, 
first  mvented,  I  believe,  in  Vienna,  and  along  which  ivy  is 
so  trained  as  to  form  an  arbor. 

The  recess  thus  constructed,  and  which  was  completely 
out  of  sight  from  the  rest  of  the  room,  was  the  hostess's 
favorite  writing-nook.  The  two  men  I  have  described  were 
seated  near  th.e  screen,  and  had  certainly  no  suspicion  that 
any  one  could  be  behind  it. 


228  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Danvers,  from  an  ottornan  niched  in 
another  recess  of  the  room,  '•  I  think  tlicrc  will  be  an  open- 
ingat  Saxboro'  soon.  Milroy  wants  a  cohjiiial  government  ; 
and  if  we  can  reconstruct  the  Cabinet  as  I  propose,  he 
would  get  one.  Saxboro'  would  thus  be  vacant.  But,  my 
dear  fellow,  Saxboro'  is  a  place  to  be  wooed  through  love 
and  only  won  through  money.  It  demands  liberalism  from 
a  candidate — two  kinds  of  liberalism  seldom  united  ;  the 
liberalism  in  opinion  which  is  natural  enough  to  a  very  poor 
man,  and  the  liberalism  in  expenditure  which  is  scarcely  to 
be  obtained  except  from  a  very  rich  one.  You  may  compqte 
the  cost  of  Saxboro'  at  ^3000  to  get  in,  and  about  ^2000 
more  to  defend  your  seat  against  a  petition — the  defeated 
candidate  nearly  always  petitions.  ^5000  is  a  large  sum  ; 
and  the  worst  of  it  is,  that  the  extreme  opinions  to  which 
the  member  for  Saxboro'  must  pledge  himself  are  a  draw- 
back to  an  official  career.  Violent  politicians  are  not  the 
best  raw  material  out  of  which  to  manufacture  fortunate 
place-men." 

"  The  opinions  do  not  so  much  matter  ;  the  expense  does. 
I  cannot  afford  ^5000,  or  even  _;^3ooo." 

"\Yould  not  Sir  Peter  assist  ?  He  has,  you  say,  only  one 
son  ;  and  if  anything  happen  to  that  one  son,  you  are  the 
next  heir." 

"My  father  quarrelled  with  Sir  Peter,  and  harassed  him 
by  an  imprudent  and  ungracious  litigation.  I  scarcely  think 
I  could  apply  to  him  for  money  to  obtain  a  seat  in  Parliament 
upon  the  democratic  side  of  the  question  ;  for,  though  I 
know  little  of  his  politics,  I  take  it  for  granted  that  a  country 
gentleman  of  old  family  and  ^10,000  a  year  cannot  well  be 
a  democrat." 

"  Then  I  presume  you  would  not  be  a  democrat  if,  by  the 
death  of  your  cousin,  you  became  heir  to  the  Chillinglys." 

"  I  am  not  sure  what  I  might  be  in  that  case.  There  are 
times  when  a  democrat  of  ancient  lineage  and  good  estates 
could  take  a  very  high  place  amongst  the  aristocracy." 

"  Humph  !  my  dear  Gordon,  vous  irez  loin." 

"  I  hope  to  do  so.  Measuring  myself  against  the  men  of 
my  own  dav,  I  do  not  see  many  who  should  outstrip  me." 

"  What  sort  of  a  fellow  is  your  cousin  Kenelm  ?  I  met 
him  once  or  twice  when  he  w'as  very  voung,  and  reading 
with  \Yelby  in  Tondon.  People  then  said  that  ho  was  very 
clever  ;   he  struck  mc  as  very  odd." 

"  I  never  saw  him  ;  but  from  all  I  hear,   whether  he  be 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  229 

clever  or  whether  he  be  odd,  he  is  not  likely  to  do  anything 
in  life — a  dreamer." 

"Writes  poetry,  perhaps?" 

"Capable  of  it,  I  daresay." 

Just  then  some  other  guests  came  into  the  room,  amongst 
them  a  lady  of  an  appearance  at  once  singularly  distin- 
guished and  singularly  prepossessing,  rather  above  the  com- 
mon height,  and  with  a  certain  indescribable  nobility  of  air 
and  presence.  Lady  Glenalvon  was  one  of  the  queens  of 
the  London  world,  and  no  queen  of  that  world  was  ever  less 
worldly  or  more  queen-like.  Side  by  side  with  the  lady  was 
Mr.  Chillingly  Mivers.  Gordon  and  Mivers  interchanged 
friendly  nods,  and  the  former  sauntered  away  and  was  soon 
lost  amid  a  crowd  of  other  young  men,  with  whom,  as  he 
could  converse  well  and  lightly  on  things  which  interested 
them,  he  was  ]-ather  a  favorite,  though  he  was  not  an  inti- 
mate associate.  Mr.  Danvers  retired  into  a  corner  of  the 
adjcjining  lobby,  where  he  favored  the  French  ambassador 
with  his  views  on  the  state  of  Europe  and  the  reconstruction 
of  Cabinets  in  general. 

"But,"  said  Lady  Glenalvon  to  Chillingly  Mivers,"  are  you 
quite  sure  that  my  old  young  friend  Kenelm  is  here  ?  Since 
you  told  me  so,  I  have  looked  everywhere  for  him  in  vain. 
I  should  so  much  like  to  see  him  again." 

"  I  certainly  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  half  an  hour  ago  ; 
but  before  I  could  escape  from  a  geologist,  who  was  boring 
me  about  the  Silurian  system,  Kenelm  had  vanished." 

"Perhaps  it  was  his  ghost !" 

"  Well,  we  certainly  live  in  the  most  credulous  and  super- 
stitious age  upon  record  ;  and  so  many  people  tell  me  that 
they  converse  with  the  dead  under  the  table,  that  it  seems 
impertinent  in  me  to  say  that  I  don't  believe  in  ghosts." 

"  Tell  me  some  of  those  incomprehensible  stories  about 
table-rapping,"  said  Lady  Glenalvon.  "  There  is  a  charming 
snug  recess  here  behind  the  screen." 

Scarcely  had  she  entered  the  recess  than  she  drew  back 
with  a  start  and  an  exclamation  of  amaze.  Seated  at  the 
table  within  the  recess,  his  chin  resting  on  his  hand,  and  his 
face  cast  down  in  abstracted  reverie,  was  a  young  man.  So 
still  was  his  attitude,  so  calmly  mournful  the  expression  of 
his  face,  so  estranged  did  he  seem  from  all  the  motley  but 
brilliant  assemblage  which  circled  around  the  solitude  he 
had  made  for  himself,  that  he  might  well  have  been  deemed 
one  of  those  visitants  from  another  world  whose  secrets  the 


230  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

intruder  had  wislicd  to  learn.  Of  that  intruder's  presence 
lie  was  evidently  unconscious.  Recovering  her  surprise, 
she  stole  up  to  him,  placed  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and 
uttered  his  name  in  a  low  gentle  voice.  At  that  sound  Ken- 
elm  Chillingly  looked  up. 

"Do  you  not  remember  me?"  asked  Lady  Glenalvon, 
Before  he  could  answer,  Mivers,  who  had  followed  the 
Marchioness  into  the  recess,  interposed. 

"  My  dear  Kenelm,  how  are  you  ?  When  did  you  come 
to  London  ?  Why  have  you  not  called  on  me  ?  and  what  on 
earth  are  you  hiding  yourself  for  ?  " 

Kenelm  had  now  recovered  the  self-possession  which  he 
rarely  lost  long  in  the  presence  of  others.  lie  returned 
cordially  his  kinsman's  greeting,  and  kissed  with  his  wonted 
chivalrous  grace  the  fair  hand  which  the  lady  withdrew 
from  liis  shoulder  and  extended  to  his  pressure.  "  Remeni- 
ber  you  !  "  he  said  to  Lady  Glenalvon,  with  the  kindliest  ex- 
pression of  his  soft  dark  eyes  ;  "  I  am  ncjt  so  far  advanced 
towards  the  noon  of  life  as  to  fcjro-et  the  sunshine  that  briofht- 
ened  its  morning.  My  dear  Mivers,  your  questions  are  easily 
answered.  I  arrived  in  England  two  weeks  ago,  stayed  at 
Exmundham  till  this  morning,  to-day  dined  with  Lord  Thet- 
ford,  whose  acquaintance  I  made  abroad,  and  was  persuaded 
by  him  to  come  here  and  be  introduced  to  his  father  and 
mother,  the  Beaumanoirs.  After  I  had  undergone  that  cere- 
mony, the  sight  of  so  many  strange  faces  friglitened  me  into 
shyricss.  Entering  this  room  at  a  moment  when  it  was  quite 
deserted,  I  resolved  to  turn  hermit  behind  the  screen." 

"Why,  you  must  have  seen  your  cousin  Gordon  as  you 
came  into  the  room." 

"  But  you  fo  get  I  don't  know  liiin  by  sight.  However, 
thi:re  was  no  one  in  the  room  when  I  entered;  a  little  later 
some  others  came  in,  for  I  heard  a  faint  buzz,  like  that  of 
persons  talking  in  a  whisper.  However,  I  was  no  eaves- 
dropper, as  a  person  behind  a  screen  is  on  the  dramatic 
stage." 

This  was  true.  Even  had  Gordon  and  Danvers  talked 
in  a  louder  tone,  Kenelm  had  been  too  absorbed  in  his  own 
thoughts  to  have  heard  a  word  of  their  conversation. 

"  You  ought  to  know  young  Gordon  ;  he  is  a  very  clever 
fellow,  and  has  an  ambition  toenter  Parliament.  I  hope  no 
old  family  quarrel  between  his  bear  of  a  father  and  dear  Sir 
Peter  will  make  you  object  to  meet  him." 

"  Sir  Peter  is  the  most  forgiving  of  men,  but  he  would 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY.  231 

scarcely  forgive  me  if  I  declined  to  meet  a  cousin  who  had 
never  offended  him." 

"Well  said.  Come  and  meet  Gordon  at  breakfast  to- 
morrow— ten  o'clock.     I  am  still  in  the  old  rooms." 

While  the  kinsmen  thus  conversed,  Lady  Glenalvon  had 
seated  herself  on  the  couch  beside  Kenelm,  and  was  quietly 
observing  his  countenance.  Now  she  spoke:  "My  dear  Mr. 
Mivers,  you  will  have  many  opportunities  of  talking  with 
Kenelm  ;  do  not  grudge  me  five  minutes'  talk  with  him  now. " 

"  I  leave  your  ladyship  alone  in  her  hermitage.  How  all 
the  men  in  this  assembly  will  envy  the  hermit  1  " 


CHAPTER  H. 

"  I  AM  glad  to  see  you  once  more  in  the  Avorld,"  said 
Lady  Glenalvon,  "and  I  trust  that  you  are  now  prepared 
to  take  that  part  in  it,  which  ought  to  be  no  mean  one  if 
you  do  justice  to  your  talents  and  your  nature." 

Kenelm. — "When  you  go  to  the  theatre,  and  sec  one  of 
the  pieces  which  appear  now  to  be  the  fashion,  which  would 
you  rather  be — an  actor  or  a  looker-on  ?" 

Lady  Glenalvon. — "  My  dear  young  friend,  your  ques- 
tion saddens  me."  (After  a  pause.) — "  But,  though  I  used 
a  stage  metaphor  when  I  expressed  my  hope  that  you  would 
take  no  mean  part  in  the  world,  the  world  is  not  really  a 
theatre.  Life  admits  of  no  lookers-on.  Speak  to  me  frank- 
ly, as  you  used  to  do.  Your  face  retains  its  old  melancholy 
expression.      Are  you  not  happy  ?  " 

Kenelm. — "Happy,  as  mortals  go,  I  ought  to  be.  I  do 
not  think  I  am  unhappy.  If  my  temper  be  melancholic, 
melancholy  has  a  happiness  of  its  own.  Milton  shows  that 
there  are  as  many  charms  in  life  to  be  found  on  the  Pense- 
roso  side  of  it  as  there  are  on  the  Allegro." 

Lady  Glenalvon. — "  Kenelm,  you  saved  the  life  of  my 
poor  son,  and  when,  later,  he  was  taken  from  me,  I  felt  as  if 
he  had  commended  you  to  my  care.  When  at  the  age  of 
sixteen,  with  a  boy's  years  and  a  man's  heart,  you  came  to 
London,  did  I  not  try  to  be  to  you  almost  as  a  mother?  and 
did  you  not  often  tell  me  that  you  could  confide  to  me  the 
secrets  of  your  heart  more  readily  than  to  any  other  ?" 

"You  were  to   me,"  said  Kenelm,  with   emotion,  "that 


232  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

most  precious  and  sustainiiif^  q-ood  genius  which  a  youth 
can  find  at  the  thresliold  of  life— a  woman  gently  wise, 
kindly  sympathizing,  shaming  him  by  the  spectacle  of  her 
own  purity  from  all  grosser  errors,  elevating  him  from  mean 
tastes  and  objects  by  the  exquisite,  ineffable  loftiness  of  soul 
which  is  only  found  in  the  noblest  order  of  womanhood. 
Come,  I  will  open  my  heart  to  you  still.  I  fear  it  is  more 
Avayward  than  ever.  It  still  feels  estranged  from  the  com- 
panionship and  pursuits  natural  to  my  age  and  station. 
However,  I  have  been  seeking  to  brace  and  harden  my 
nature,  for  the  practical  ends  of  life,  by  travel  and  adven- 
ture, chiefly  among  rougher  varieties  of  mankind  than  we 
meet  in  drawing-rooms.  Now,  in  compliance  with  the  duty 
I  owe  to  my  dear  father's  wishes,  I  conic  back  to  these  cir- 
cles, which  under  your  auspices  I  entered  in  boyhood,  and 
which  even  then  seemed  to  ine  so  inane  and  artificial.  Take 
a  part  in  the  world  of  these  circles  ;  such  is  your  wish.  My 
answer  is  brief.  I  iiave  been  doing  my  best  to  acquire  a 
motive  power,  and  I  have  not  succeeded.  I  see  nothing  that 
I  care  to  strive  for,  nothing  that  1  care  to  gain.  The  very 
times  in  which  we  live  are  to  me  as  to  Hamlet — out  of  joint ; 
and  1  am  not  born  like  Hamlet  to  set  them  right.  Ah  !  if  I 
could  look  on  society  through  the  spectacles  with  Avhich  the 
poor  hidalgo  in  '  Gil  Bias  '  looked  on  his  meagre  board — 
spectacles  liy  which  cherries  appear  the  size  of  peaches,  and 
tomtits  as  large  as  turkeys  !  The  imagination  which  is 
necessary  to  ambition  is  a  great  magnifier." 

"  I  have  known  more  than  one  man,  now  very  eminent, 
very  active,  who  at  your  age  felt  the  same  estrangement 
fnjiu  the  practical  pursuits  of  others." 

"And  what  rec(jnciled  those  men  to  such  pursuits?" 
"  That  diminished  sense   of  individual   personality,  that 
unconscious  fusion  of  one's  own  being  into  other  existen- 
ces,  which  belong  to  home  and  marriage." 

"  I  don't  object  to  home,  l)ut  I  do  to   marriage." 
"  Depend  on  it,  there  is  no  home  for  man  where  there  is 
no  woman." 

"  Prettily  said.      In  that  case  I  resign  the  home." 
"Do  you  mean  seriously  to  tell  me   that  you  never  sec 
the  woman  you  could  loye  enough  to  make  her  your  wife, 
and  never  enter  any  hc^pie  that  vou  do  not  quit  with  a  touch 
of  envy  at  the  happiness  of  married  life  ?  " 

"  Seriously,  I  never  see  such  a  woman  ;  seriously,  I  never 
enter  such  a  home." 


KENELM    CHILLINGLY.  233 

"  Patience,  then  ;  your  time  will  come,  and  I  hope  it  is 
at  hand.  Listen  to  me.  It  was  only  yesterday  that  I  felt 
an  indescribable  longing  to  see  you  again — to  know  your 
address,  that  I  might  write  to  you  ;  for  yesterday,  when  a 
certain  young  lady  left  my  house,  after  a  week's  visit,  I  said, 
this  girl  would  make  a  perfect  wife,  and,  above  all,  the  exact 
wife  to  suit  Kenelm  Chillingly." 

"  Kenelm  Chillingly  is  very  glad  to  hear  that  this  young 
lady  has  left  your  house." 

"  But  she  has  not  left  London — she  is  here  to-night.  She 
only  stayed  with  me  till  her  father  came  to  town,  and  the 
house  he  had  taken  for  the  season  was  vacant  ;  those  events 
happened  yesterday." 

"  Fortunate  events  for  me  :  they  permit  me  to  call  on 
you  without  danger." 

"  Have  you  no  curiosity  to  know,  at  least,  who  and 
what  is  the  young  lady  who  appears  to  me  so  well  suited  to 
you  ? 

"  No  curiosity,  but  a  vague  sensation  of  alarm." 

"  Well,  I  cannot  talk  pleasantly  with  you  while  you  are 
in  this  irritating  mood,  and  it  is  time  to  quit  the  hermitage. 
Come,  there  are  many  persons  here  with  some  of  whom  you 
should  renew  old  acquaintance,  and  to  some  of  whom  I 
should  like  to  make  you  known." 

"  I  am  prepared  to  follow  Lady  Glenalvon  wherever  she 
deigns  to  lead  me — except  to  the  altar  with  another." 


CHAPTER   HL 


The  rooms  were  now  full — not  overcrowded,  but  full — 
and  it  was  rarely  even  in  that  house  that  so  many  distin- 
guished persons  were  collected  together.  A  young  man  thus 
honored  by  so  g ramie  a  dame  as  I^ady  Glenalvon,  could  not 
but  be  cordially  welcomed  by  all  to  whom  she  presented 
him,  Ministers  and  Parliamentary  leaders,  ball-givers  and 
beauties  in  vogue— even  authors  and  artists  ;  and  there  was 
something  in  Kenelm  Chillingly,  in  his  striking  countenance 
and  figure,  in  that  calm  ease  of  manner  natural  to  his  indif- 
ference to  effect,  which  seemed  to  justify  the  favor  shown 
to  him  by  the  brilliant  princess  of  fashion,  and  mark  him 
out  for  general  observation. 


234  K'EXKLM   CHILLINGLY. 

That  lirst  evening"  of  liis  reintrodiiction  to  the  polite  world 
was  a  success  which   few  young  men  of   his  years  achieve 
He  produced  a  sensation.    Just  as  the  rooms  were  thinning, 
Lady  Glenalvon  whispered  to  Ken(;lni  : 

"  Come  this  way— there  is  one  person  I  must  reintroduce 
you  to  — thank  me  for  it  hereafter." 

Kenelm  followed  the  Marchioness,  and  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  Cecilia  Travers.  She  was  leaning  on  her 
father's  arm,  looking  very  handsome,  and  her  beauty  was 
heightened  by  the  blush  which  overspread  her  cheeks  as 
Kenelm  Chillingly  approached. 

Travers  gieeted  him  with  great  cordiality  ;  and  Lady 
Glenalvon  asking  him  to  escort  her  to  the  refreshment-room, 
Kenelm  had  no  option  but  to  offer  his  arm  to  Cecilia. 

Kenelm  felt  somewhat  embarrassed.  "  Have  you  been 
long  in  town,  Miss  Travers  ?  " 

"A  little  more  than  a  week,  but  we  only  settled  into  our 
house  yesterday." 

"Ah,  indeed  !  were  you  then  the  young  lady  who " 

He  stopped  short,  and  his  face  grew  gentler  and  graver  in 
its  expression. 

"The  young  lady  who — what?"  asked  Cecilia,  with  a 
smile. 

"  Who  has  been  staying  wath  Lady  Glenalvon  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  did  she  tell  you  ? " 

"  She  did  not  mention  your  name,  but  praised  that  young 
lady  so  justly  that  1  ought  to  have  guessed  it." 

Cecilia  made  some  not  very  audible  answer,  and  on  en- 
tering the  refreshment-room  other  young  men  gathered 
round  her,  and  Lady  Glenalvon  and  Kenelm  remained 
silent  in  the  midst  of  a  general  small-talk.  When  Travers, 
after  giving  his  address  to  Kenelm,  and,  of  course,  pressing 
him  to  call,  left  the  house  with  Cecilia,  Kenelm  said  to  Lady 
Glenalvon,  musingly,  "  So  that  is  the  young  lady  in  whom  I 
was  to  see  my  fate  :  you  knew  that  we  had  met  before? " 

"Yes,  she  told  me  when  and  where.  Besides,  it  is  not 
two  years  since  you  wrote  to  me  from  her  father's  house. 
Do  you  forget  ?  " 

"Ah,"  said  Kenelm,  so  abstractedly  that  beseemed  to  be 
dreaming,  "  no  man  with  his  eyes  open  rushes  on  his  fate  ; 
when  he  does  so,  his  sight  is  gone.  Love  is  blind.  They 
say  the  blind  are  very  happy,  yet  1  never  met  a  blind  man 
who  would  not  recover  his  sight  if  he  could." 


KENELM   CIIILLINGLY.  235 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Mr.  Chillingly  Mivers  never  gave  a  dinner  at  his  own 
rooms.  Wiien  he  did  give  a  dinner,  it  was  at  Greenwich  or 
Richmond.  But  he  gave  breakfast-parties  pretty  often,  and 
they  were  considered  pleasant.  He  had  liandsome  bachelor 
apartments  in  Grosvenor  Street,  daintily  furnished,  with  a 
prevalent  air  of  exquisite  neatness.  A  good  library  stored 
with  books  of  reference,  and  adorned  with  presentation 
copies  from  authors  of  the  day,  very  beautifully  bound. 
Though  the  room  served  for  the  study  of  the  professed  man 
of  letters,  it  had  none  of  the  untidy  litter  which  generally 
characterizes  the  study  of  one  whose  vocation  it  is  to  deal 
with  books  and  papers.  Even  the  implements  for  writing 
were  not  apparent,  except  when  recjuired.  They  lay  con- 
cealed in  a  vast  cylinder  bureau,  French  made,  and  French 
polished.  Within  that  bureau  were  numerous  pigeon-holes 
and  secret  drawers,  and  a  profound  well  with  a  separate 
patent  lock.  In  the  well  were  deposited  the  articles  intended 
for  publication  in  "  The  Londoner  " — proof-sheets,  etc.  ; 
pigeon-holes  were  devoted  to  ordinary  correspondence  ; 
secret  drawers  to  confidential  notes,  and  outlines  of  biogra- 
phies of  eminent  men  now  living,  but  intended  to  be  com- 
pleted for  publication  the  day  after  their  death. 

No  man  wrote  such  funereal  compositions  with  a  livelier 
pen  than  that  of  Chillingly  Mivers  ;  and  the  large  and  mis- 
cellaneous circle  of  his  visitingacquaintances  allowed  him  to 
ascertain,  whether  by  authoritative  report  or  by  personal  ob- 
servation, the  signs  of  mortal  disease  in  the  illustrious  friends 
whose  dinners  he  accepted,  and  whose  failing  pulses  he  in- 
stinctively felt  in  returning  the  pressure  of  their  hands,  so 
that  he  was  often  able  to  put  the  finishing-stroke  to  their 
obituary  memorials,  days,  weeks,  even  months,  before  their 
fate  took  the  public  by  stn-prise.  That  cylinder  bureau  was 
in  harmony  with  the  secrecy  in  which  this  remarkable  man 
shrouded  the  productions  of  his  brain.  In  his  literary  life 
Mivers  had  no  "  I  ;  "  there  he  was  ever  the  inscrutable,  mys- 
terious "We."  He  was  only  "I  "  when  you  met  him  in  the 
world  and  called  him  Mivers. 

Adjoining  the  library  on  one  side  was  a  small  dining-  of 


236  KEXELM  CIIILI.IXCLY. 

rather  breakfast-room,  hung  witli  valuable  pictures — presents 
from  living'  painters.  Many  of  these  painters  had  been 
severely  handled  by  Mr.  Mivers  in  liis  existence  as  "  We,"— 
not  always  in  "  The  Londoner."  His  most  pungent  criticisms 
were  often  contributed  to  other  intellectual  journals,  con- 
ducted by  members  of  the  same  intellectual  clique.  Painters 
knew  not  how  contemptuously  "We"  had  treated  them 
when  they  met  Mr.  Mivers.  His  "  I  "  was  so  complimentary 
that  they  sent  him  a  tribute  of  their  gratitude. 

On  the  other  side  was  his  drawing-room,  also  enriched 
by  many  gifts,  chiefly  from  fair  hands — embroidered  cush- 
ions and  table-covers,  bits  of  Slvres  or  old  Chelsea,  elegant 
knick-knacks  of  all  kinds.  Fashionable  authoresses  paid 
great  court  to  Mr.  Mivers  ;  and  in  the  course  of  his  life  as  a 
single  man  he  had  other  female  adorers  besides  fashionable 
authoresses. 

Mr.  Mivers  had  already  returned  from  his  early  constitu- 
tional walk  in  the  Park,  and  was  now  seated  by  the  cylinder 
secretaire  with  a  mild-looking  man,  who  was  one  of  the  most 
merciless  contributors  to  "  The  Londoner,"  and  no  unim- 
portant councillor  in  the  oligarchy  of  the  clique  that  went 
by  the  name  of  the  "Intellectuals." 

"  Well,"  said  Mivers,  languidly,  "  I  can't  even  get  through 
the  book  ;  it  is  as  dull  as  the  country  in  November.  But 
as  you  justly  say,  the  writer  is  an  'Intellectual,'  and  a  clique 
would  be  anything  but  intellectual  if  it  did  not  support  its 
members.  Review  the  book  yourself — mind  and  make  the 
dullness  of  it  the  signal  proof  of  its  merit.  Say — 'To  the 
ordinary  class  of  readers  this  -exquisite  work  may  appear 
less  brilliant  than  the  flippant  smartness  of — any  other 
author  you  like  to  name  ;  '  but  to  the  well-educated  and  in- 
telligent every  line  is  pregnant  with,'  etc.  etc.  By  the  way, 
when  we  come  by-and-by  to  review  the  exhibition  at  Bur- 
lington House,  there  is  one  painter  whom  we  must  try  our 
best  to  crush.  I  have  not  seen  his  pictures  myself,  but  he 
is  a  new  man,  and  our  friend,  who  has  seen  him,  is  terribly 
jealous  of  him,  and  says  that  if  the  good  judges  do  not  put 
him  down  at  once,  the  villanous  taste  of  the  public  will  set 
him  up  as  a  prodigy.  A  low-lived  fellow  too,  I  hear.  There 
is  the  name  of  the  man  and  the  subject  of  the  pictures. 
See  to  it  when  the  time  comes.  Meanwhile,  prepare  the 
way  for  onslaught  on  the  pictures  by  occasional  sneers  at 
the  painter."  Mr.  Mivers  here  took  out  of  his  cylinder  a 
confidential  note  from  the  jealous  rival,  and  handed  it  to  his 


KENELM   C/I/LL/XGLY.  237 

mild-looking  coufr're  :  then  rising,  he  said,  "I  fear  we  must 
suspend  business  till  to-morrow  ;  I  expect  two  young  cou- 
sins to  breakfast." 

As  soon  as  the  mild-looking  man  was  gone,  Mr.  Mivers 
sauntered  to  his  drawing-ro(jm  window,  amiably  offering  a 
Jump  of  sugar  to  a  canary-bird  sent  him  as  a  present  the 
day  before,  and  who,  in  the  gilded  cage  which  made  part  of 
the  present,  scanned  him  suspiciously,  and  refused  the 
sugar. 

Time  had  remained  very  gentle  in  its  dealings  with  Chil- 
lingly Mivers.  He  scarcely  looked  a  day  older  than  when 
he  was  first  presented  to  the  reader  on  the  birth  of  his  kins- 
man Kenelm.  He  was  reaping  the  fruit  of  his  own  sage 
maxims.  Free  from  whiskers  and  safe  in  wig,  there  was  no 
sign  of  gray — no  suspicion  of  dye.  Superiority  to  passion, 
abnegation  of  sorrow,  indulgence  of  amusement,  avoidance 
of  excess,  had  kept  away  the  crow's  feet,  preserved  the  elas- 
ticity of  his  frame  and  the  unflushed  clearness  of  his  gentle- 
manlike complexion.  The  door  opened,  and  a  well-dressed 
valet,  Avho  had  lived  long  enough  with  Mivers  to  grow  veiy 
much  like  him,  announced  INIr.  Chillingly  Gordon. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  Mivers  ;  "  I  was  much  pleased  to 
see  you  talking  so  long  and  so  familiarly  with  Danvers  : 
others,  of  course,  observed  it,  and  it  added  a  step  to  your 
career.  It  does  you  great  good  to  be  seen  in  a  drawing- 
room  talking  apart  with  a  Somebody.  But  may  I  ask  if  the 
talk  itself  was  satisfactory  ?" 

"Not  at  all  :  Danvers  throws  cold  water  on  the  notion  cf 
Saxboro',  and  does  not  even  hint  that  his  party  will  help  me 
to  any  other  opening.  Party  has  few  openings  at  its  dis- 
posal nowadays  for  any  young  man.  The  schoolmaster  be- 
ing abroad  has  swept  away  the  school  for  statesmen  as  he 
has  swept  away  the  school  for  actors — an  evil,  and  an  evil 
of  a  far  graver  consequence  to  the  destinies  of  the  nation 
than  any  good  likely  to  be  got  from  the  system  that  suc- 
ceeded it." 

"But  it  is  of  no  use  railing  against  things  that  can't  be 
helped.  If  I  were  you,  I  would  postpone  all  ambition  of 
Parliament,  and  read  for  the  bar." 

"  The  advice  is  sound,  but  too  unpalatable  to  be  taken. 
I  am  resolved  to  find  a  seat  in  the  House,  and  where  there 
is  a  will  there  is  a  way." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that." 

"But  I  am." 


238  KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY. 

"  Judging  by  \vli;U  your  contemporaries  at  the  University 
tell  nie  of  your  speeches  at  the  Debating  Society,  you  were 
not  then  an  ultra-Radical.  But  it  is  only  an  ultra-Radical 
who  has  a  chance  of  success  at  Saxboro'." 

"  I  am  no  fanatic  in  politics.  There  is  much  to  be  said 
on  all  sides — ccetcn's paribus,  I  prefer  the  .winning  side  to  the 
losing  :  nothing  succeeds  like  success." 

"  Ay,  but  in  politics  there  is  always  reaction.  The  win- 
ning  side  one  day  may  be  the  losing  side  another.  The 
losing  side  represents  a  minority,  and  a  minority  is  sure  to 
comprise  more  intellect  than  a  majority  ;  in  the  long-run 
intellect  will  force  its  way,  get  a  majority,  and  then  lose  it, 
because  with  a  majority  it  will  become  stujjid." 

"Cousin  Olivers,  does  not  the  history  of  the  world  show 
you  that  a  single  individual  can  upset  all  theories  as  to  the 
comparative  wisdom  of  the  few  or  the  many  ?  Take  the 
wisest  few  you  can  find,  and  one  man  of  genius  not  a  tithe 
so  wise  crushes  them  into  powder.  But  then  that  man  of 
genius,  though  he  despises  the  many,  must  make  use  of 
them.  That  done,  he  rules  them.  Don't  you  see  how  in 
free  countries  political  destinations  resolve  themselves  into 
individual  impersonations  ?  At  a  general  election  it  is  one 
name  around  which  electors  rally.  The  candidate  may  en- 
large as  much  as  he  pleases  on  political  principles,  but  all  his 
talk  will  not  win  him  votes  enougii  for  success,  unless  he  says, 
*  I  go  with  Mr.  A.,'  the  Minister,  or  with  Mr.  Z.,  the  chief  of 
the  Opposition.  It  was  not  the  Tories  Avho  beat  the  Whigs 
when  Mr.  Pitt  dissolved  Parliament.  It  was  Mr.  Pitt  who 
beat  Mr.  Fox,  with  wdiom  in  general  political  principles- 
slave-trade,  Roman  Catholic  Emancipation,  Parliamentary 
Reform— he  certainly  agreed  much  more  than  he  did  with 
any  man  in  his  own  Cabinet." 

"Take  care,  my  young  cousin,"  cried  Mivers,  in  accents 
of  alarm  ;  "don't  set  up  for  a  man  of  genius.  Genius  is  the 
worst  quality  a  public  man  can  have  nowadays — nobody 
heeds  it,  and  everybody  is  jealous  of  it." 

"  Pardon  me,  you  mistake  ;  my  remark  was  purely  ob- 
jective, and  intended  as  a  reply  to  your  argument.  I  prefer 
at  present  to  go  with  the  many  because  it  is  the  winning 
side.  If  we  then  want  a  man  of  genius  to  keep  it  the  winning 
side,  by  subjugating  its  partisans  to  his  will,  he  will  be  sure 
to  come.  The  few  will  drive  him  to  us,  for  the  few  are 
always  the  enemies  of  the  one  man  of  genius.  It  is  they  who 
distrust — it   is  they  who   are  jealous — not  the  many.     You 


KEN  ELM    CHILLINGLY.  239 

have  aliowed  your  judgment,  usually  so  clear,  to  be  some- 
what dimmed  by  your  experience  as  a  critic.  The  critics 
are  the  few.  They  have  infinitely  more  culture  than  the 
many.  But  when  a  man  of  real  genius  appears  and  asserts 
himself,  the  critics  are  seldom  such  fair  judges  of  him  as  the 
many  are.  If  he  be  not  one  of  their  oligarchical  clique, 
they  either  abuse,  or  disparage,  or  affect  to  ignore  him  ; 
though  a  time  at  last  comes  when,  having  gained  the  many, 
the  critics  acknowledge  him.  But  the  difference  between 
the  man  of  action  and  the  author  is  this,  that  the  author 
rarely  finds  this  acknowledgment  till  he  is  dead,  and  it  is 
necessary  to  the  man  of  action  to  enforce  it  while  he  is  alive. 
But  enough  of  this  speculation  •.  you  asked  me  to  meet 
Kenelm — is  he  not  coming  ?  " 

"Yes,  but  I  did  not  ask  him  till  ten  o'clock.  I  asked  you 
at  half-past  nine,  because  I  wished  to  hear  about  Danvers  and 
Saxboro',  and  also  to  prepare  you  somewhat  for  your  intro- 
duction to  your  cousin.  I  must  be  brief  as  to  the  last,  for  it 
is  only  five' minutes  to  the  hour,  and  he  is  a  man  liable  to  be 
punctual.  Kenelm  is  in  all  ways  your  opposite.  I  don't 
know  whether  he  is  cleverer  or  less  clever — there  is  no  scale 
of  measurement  between  you  ;  but  he  is  wholly  void  of  am- 
bition, and  might  possibly  assist  yours.  He  can  do  what  he 
likes  with  Sir  Peter  ;  and  considering  how  your  poor  father 
— a  worthy  man  but  cantankerous — harassed  and  persecuted 
Sir  Peter  because  Kenelm  came  between  the  estate  and  you, 
it  is  probable  that  Sir  Peter  bears  you  a  grudge,  though 
Kenelm  declares  him  incapable  of  it  ;  and  it  would  be  well 
if  you  could  annul  that  grudge  in  the  father  by  conciliating 
the  good  will  of  the  son." 

"  I  should  be  glad  so  to  annul  it  ;  but  what  is  Kenelm's 

weak  side  ?— the  turf?  the  hunting-field?  women?  poetry? 

One  can  only  conciliate  a  man  by  getting  on  his  weak  side." 

"  Hist !   I  see  him  from  the  windows.     Kenelm's  weak  side 

was,  when  I  knew  him  some  years  ago,  and  I  rather  fancy  it 

still  is -" 

"Well,  make  haste  !  I  hear  his  ring  at  your  door-bell." 
"A  passionate  longing  to  find  ideal  truth  in  real  life." 
"Ah!"  said  Gordon,  "as  I  thought — a  mere  dreamer." 


240  KENELM   CHILLINGLY, 


CHAPTER  V. 

Kenelm  entered  tlie  room.  The  young  cousins  were  in- 
troduced, shook  hands,  receded  a  step,  and  gazed  at  eacli 
other.  It  is  scarcely  possible  to  conceive  a  greater  contrast 
outwardly  than  that  between  the  two  Chillingly  representa- 
tives of  the  rising  generation.  Each  was  silently  impressed 
by  the  sense  of  that  contrast.  Each  felt  that  the  contrast 
implied  antagonism,  and  that  if  they  two  met  in  the  same 
arena  it  must  be  as  rival  combatants  ;  still,  by  some  myster- 
ious intuition,  each  felt  a  certain  respect  for  the  other,  each 
divined  in  the  other  a  power  that  he  could  not  fairly  estimate, 
but  against  which  his  own  power  would  be  strongly  tasked 
to  contend.  So  might  exchange  looks  a  thorough-bred  deer- 
hound  and  a  half-bred  mastiff  :  the  bystander  could  scarce- 
ly doubt  which  was  the  nobler  animal,  but  he  might  hesitate 
which  to  bet  on,  if  the  two  came  to  deadly  quarrel.  Mean- 
while the  thorough-bred  deer-hound  and  the  half-bred  mas- 
tiff sniffed  at  each  other  in  polite  salutation.  Gordon  was 
the  first  to  give  tongue. 

"  I  have  long  wished  to  know  you  personally,"  said  he, 
throwing  into  his  voice  and  manner  that  delicate  kind  of 
deference  which  a  well-born  cadet  owes  to  the  destined  head 
of  his  house.  "  I  cannot  conceive  how  I  missed  you  last 
night  at  Lady  Beaumanoir's,  where  Mivers  tells  me  he  met 
you  ;  but  I  left  early." 

Here  Mivers  led  the  way  to  the  breakfast-room,  and, 
there  seated,  the  host  became  the  principal  talker,  running 
with  lively  glibness  over  the  principal  topics  of  the  day -the 
last  scandal,  the  last  new  book,  the  reform  of  the  army,  the 
reform  of  the  turf,  the  critical  state  of  Spain,  and  the  debut 
of  an  Italian  singer.  He  seemed  an  embodied  Journal,  in- 
cluding the  Leading  Article,  the  Law  Reports,  Foreign 
Intelligence,  the  Court  Circular,  down  to  the  Births,  Deaths, 
and  Marriages.  Gordon  from  time  to  time  interrupted  this 
flow  of  soul  with  brief,  trenchant  remarks,  which  evinced  his 
own  knowledge  of  the  subjects  treated,  and  a  habit  of  look- 
ing on  all  subjects  connected  with  the  pursuits  and  business 
of  mankind  from  n  high  irround  aiipropriated  to  himself,  and 
through   the  medium   of  that  blue  glass  which   conveys  a 


KENELM   CHILLINGL  Y.  241 

wintry  aspect  to  summer  landscapes.     Kenelm  said  little,  but 
listened  attentively. 

The  conversation  arrested  its  discursive  nature,  to  settle 
upon  a  political  chief — the  highest  in  fame  and  station  of 
that  party  to  which  Mivers  professed — not  to  belong,  he  be- 
longed to  himself  alone, — but  to  appropinquate.  Mivers 
spoke  of  this  chief  with  the  greatest  distrust,  and  in  a  spirit 
of  general  depreciation.  Gordon  acquiesced  in  the  distrust 
and  the  depreciation,  adding,  "  But  he  is  master  of  the 
position,  and  must,  of  course,  be  supported  through  thick 
and  thin  for  the  present." 

"Yes,  for  the  present,"  said  Mivers  ;  "  one  has  no  option. 
But  you  will  see  some  clever  articles  in  'The  Londoner' 
towards  the  close  of  the  session,  which  will  damage  him 
greatly,  by  praising  him  in  the  wrong  place,  and  deepening 
the  alarm  of  important  followers — an  alarm  now  at  work, 
though  suppressed." 

Here  Kcnclm  asked,  in  humble  tones,-"  Why  Gordon 
thoiieht  that  a  Minister  he  considered  so  untrustworthv  and 
dangerous  must,  for  the  present,  be  supported  through  thick 
and  thin." 

"  Because  at  present  a  member  elected  so  to  support  him 
would  lose  his  seat  if  he  did  not  :  needs  must  when  the  devil 
drives." 

Kenelm. — "When  the  devil  drives,  I  should  have  thought 
it  better  to  resign  one's  seat  on  the  coach  ;  perhaps  one  might 
be  of  some  use,  out  of  it,  in  helping  to  put  on  the  drag." 

Mivers. — "  Cleverly  said,  Kenelm.  But,  metaphor  apart, 
Gordon  is  right  :  a  young  politician  must  go  with  his  party  ; 
a  veteran  journalist  like  myself  is  more  independent.  So 
long  as  the  journalist  blames  everybody,  he  will  have  plenty 
of  readers." 

Kenelm  made  no  reply,  and  Gordon  changed  the  conver- 
sation from  men  to  measures.  He  spoke  of  some  Bills  be- 
fore Parliament  with  remarkable  ability,  evincing  much 
knowledge  of  the  subject,  much  critical  acuteness,  illustrating 
their  defects,  and  proving  the  danger  of  their  ultimate  con- 
sequences. 

Kenelm  was  greatly  struck  with  the  vigor  of  this  cold, 
clear  mind,  and  owned  to  himself  that  the  House  of  Com- 
mons was  a  fitting:  place  for  its  development. 

"But,"  said  Mivers,  "would  vou  not  be  obliged  to  de- 
fend these  Bills  if  you  were  member  for  Saxboro'  ?  " 

"Before  T  answer  your  question,  answer  me  this.      Dan- 


242  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

gcrous  as  the  Bills  arc,  it  is  not  necessary  that  they  shall 
pass?     Have  not  the  public  so  resoh'cd  ? " 

"There  can  be  no  doubto  f  that." 

"  Then  the  member  for  Saxboro'  cannot  be  strong 
enough  to  go  against  the  public." 

"  Progress  of  the  age  !  "  said  Kenelm,  musingly.  "  Do 
you  think  the  class  of  gentlemen  will  long  last  in  England  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  call  gentlemen  ?  The  aristocracy  by 
birth  ? — the  gcntilhoinines  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I  suppose  no  laws  can  take  away  a  man's  ances- 
tors, and  a  class  of  well-born  men  is  not  to  be  exterminated. 
But  a  class  of  well-born  men — without  duties,  responsi- 
bilities, or  sentiment  of  that  which  becomes  good  birth  in 
devotion  to  coiuitry  or  individual  honor — does  no  good  to  a 
nation.  It  is  a  misfortune  which  statesmen  of  democratic 
creed  ought  to  recognize,  that  the  class  of  the  well-born 
cannot  be  destroyed — it  must  remain  as  it  remained  in 
Rome  and  remains  in  France,  after  all  efforts  to  extirpate 
it,  as  the  most  dangerous  class  of  citizens  when  you  deprive 
it  of  the  attributes  which  made  it  the  most  serviceable.  I 
am  not  speaking  of  that  (lass  ;  I  speak  of  that  unclassified 
order  peculiar  to  England,  which,  no  doubt,  forming  itself 
originally  from  tlie  ideal  standard  of  honor  and  truth  sup- 
posed to  be  maintained  bv  tlie  gcntilhoinnics,  or  well-born,  no 
longer  requires  pedigrees  and  acres  to  confer  u[)on  its 
members  the  designation  of  gentlemen  ;  and  when  1  hear  a 
'gentleman'  say  that  he  has  no  option  but  to  think  one 
thing  and  say  another,  at  whatever  risk  to  his  country,  I 
feel  as  if  in  the  progress  of  the  age  the  class  of  gentlemen 
was  about  to  be  superseded  by  some  finer  development  of 
species." 

Therewith  Kenelm  rose,  and  would  have  taken  his  de- 
parture, if  Gordon  had  not  seized  his  hand  and  detained 
him. 

"My  dear  cousin,  if  I  may  so  call  you,"  he  said,  with  the 
frank  manner  which  was  usual  to  him,  and  wliicii  suited 
well  the  bold  expression  of  his  face  and  the  clear  ring  of 
his  voice,  "  I  am  one  of  those  who,  from  an  over-dislike  to 
sentimentality  and  cant,  often  make  those  not  intimately  ac- 
quainted with  them  think  worse  of  their  principles  than 
they  deserve.  It  may  be  quite  true  that  a  man  who  goes 
with  his  party  dislikes  the  measures  he  feels  bound  to  sup- 
port, and  says  so  openly  when  among  friends  and  relations, 
yet  that  man  is  not  therefore  devoid  of  loyalty  and  honor  ; 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 


243 


and  I  trust,  when  you  know  me  better,  you  will  not  think  it 
likely  I  should  derogate  from  that  class  of  gentlemen  to 
which  we  both  belong." 

"  Pardon  me  if  I  seemed  rude,"  answered  Kenelm,  "as- 
cribe it  to  my  ignorance  of  the  necessities  of  public  life.  It 
struck  me  that  where  a  politician  thought  a  thing  evil  he 
ought  not  to  support  it  as  good.  But  I  daresay  I  am  mis- 
taken." 

"  Entirely  mistaken,"  said  Mivers,  "  and  for  this  reason  ; 
in  politics  formerly  there  was  a  direct  choice  between  good 
and  evil.  That  rarely  exists  now.  Men  of  high  education, 
having  to  choose  whether  to  accept  or  reject  a  measure 
forced  upon  their  option  by  constituent  bodies  of  very  low 
education,  are  called  upon  to  weigh  evil  against  evil — the 
evil  of  accepting  or  the  evil  of  rejecting  ;  and  if  they  resolve 
on  the  first,  it  is  as  the  lesser  evil  of  the  two." 

"Your  definition  is  perfect,"  said  Gordon,  "and  lam 
contented  to  rest  on  it  my  excuse  for  what  my  cousin 
deems  insincerity." 

"I  suppose  that  is  real  life,"  said  Kenelm,  with  a  mourn- 
ful smile. 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  said  Mivers. 

"Everyday  I  live,"  sighed  Kenelm,  "still  more  confirms 
my  conviction  that  real  life  is  a  phantasmal  sham.  How 
absurd  it  is  in  philosophers  to  deny  the  existence  of  appari- 
tions !  what  apparitions  we,  living  men,  must  seem  to  the 
ghosts  ! 

"  '  The  spirits  of  the  wise 
Sit  ill  the  clouds  and  mock  us.'  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 


Chillingly  Gordon  did  not  fail  to  confirm  his  acquain- 
tance with  Kenelm.  He  very  often  looked  in  upon  him  of  a 
morning,  sometimes  joined  him  in  his  afternoon  rides,  intro- 
duced him  to  men  of  his  own  set,  Avho  were  mostly  busy 
members  of  Parliament,  rising  barristers,  or  political  journal- 
ists, but  not  without  a  proportion  of  brilliant  idlers — club 
men,  sporting  men,  men  of  fashion,  rank,  and  fortune.  He 
did  so  with  a  purpose,  for  these  persons  spoke  well  of  him, 
spoke  well  not  only  of  his  talents,  but  of  his  honorable  char- 


244  KEN  ELM   CHlf-LINGL  Y. 

acter.  His  general  nickname  amongst  tliem  was  "  Honest 
Gordon."  Kenelm  at  first  thought  this  sobriquet  must  be 
ironical  ;  not  a  bit  of  it.  It  was  given  to  him  on  account 
of  the  candor  and  boldness  with  which  he  expressed  opinions 
embodying  tliat  sort  of  cynicism  which  is  vulgarly  called  "  the 
absence  of  humbug."  The  man  was  certainlv  no  hypocrite  ; 
he  affected  no  beliefs  which  he  did  not  entertain.  And  he 
had  very  few  beliefs  in  anything,  except  the  first  half  of  the 
adage,  "Every  man  for  himself, — and  God  for  us  all." 

But  whatever  Chillingly  Gordon's  theoretical  disbeliefs 
in  things  which  make  the  current  creed  of  the  virtuous,  there 
was  nothing  in  his  conduct  which  evinced  predilection  for 
vices  :  he  was  strictly  upright  in  all  his  dealings,  and  in 
delicate  matters  of  honor  was  a  favorite  umpire  amongst 
his  coevals.  Though  so  frankly  ambitious,  no  one  could  ac- 
cuse him  of  attempting  to  climb  on  the  shoulders  of  patrons. 
There  was  nothing  servile  in  his  nature,  and,  though  he  was 
perfectly  prepared  to  bribe  electors  if  necessary,  no  money 
could  have  bought  himself.  His  one  master-passion  was 
the  desire  of  power.  He  sneered  at  patriotism  as  a  worn-out 
prejudice,  at  philanthropy  as  a  sentimental  catch-word.  He 
did  not  want  to  serve  his  country,  but  to  rule  it.  He  did  not 
want  to  raise  mankind,  but  to  rise  himself.  He  was  there- 
fore unscrupulous,  unprincipled,  as  hungerers  after  power 
for  itself  too  often  are  ;  yet  still  if  he  got  power  he  would 
probably  use  it  well,  from  the  clearness  and  strength  of  his 
mental  perceptions.  The  impression  he  made  on  Kenelm 
may  be  seen  in  the  following  letter  : — 

TO   SIR    PETER    CHILLINGLY,   BART.,   ETC. 

"My  dear  Father, — You  and  my  dear  motlier  will  he  i)Ieased  to  hear 
(hat  London  continues  very  polite  to  me  :  that  '  arida  nutrix  leonum  '  enrols 
me  among  the  pet  class  of  lions  which  ladies  of  fashion  admit  into  the  society 
of  their  lap-dogs.  It  is  somewhere  about  six  years  since  I  was  allowed  to 
gaze  on  this  peep  show  through  the  loopholes  of  Mr.  Welby's  retreat.  It  ap- 
jiears  to  me,  jicrliaps  erroneously,  that  even  within  tiiat  short  sjiace  of  time 
the  tone  of  '  society  '  is  j^erccptibly  changed.  That  the  change  is  for  the 
better  is  an  assertion  I  leave  to  those  who  belong  to  the  progresista  party. 

"  I  don't  think  nearly  so  n  any  y(  ung  ladies  six  years  ago  painted  th.eir 
eyelids  and  dyed  their  hair  :  a  few  of  them  there  might  be,  imitators  of  the 
slang  invented  by  schoolboys  and  circulated  through  the  medium  of  small 
novelists;  they  might  use  such  expressions  as  'stunning,'  'cheek,'  'awfully 
jolly,'  etc.  But  now  I  find  a  great  many  who  have  advanced  to  a  slang  be- 
yond that  of  verbal  expressions,  —  a  slang  of  mind,  a  slang  of  sentiment,  a 
slang  ill  which  very  little  seemb  left  of  the  woman,  and  nothing  at  all  of  the 
lady. 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  245 

"  Newspaper  essayists  assert  that  the  young  men  of  the  day  are  to  hlamo 
for  this;  that  tlie  young  men  like  it,  and  the  fair  iuisband-an,L;ler>  dress  their 
flie-;iii  the  colors  mo^t  likely  to  attract  a  nibble.  Whether  this  excuse  bj  the 
tiU2  0iie  [  cannot  pretend  to  judge.  But  it  strikes  me  that  the  men  about 
mv  own  age  who  affect  to  be  fa>t  are  a  more  languid  race  than  the  men  from 
ten  to  twenty  years  older,  whoui  they  regard  as  slnv.  The  habit  of  dram- 
drinking  iu  the  morning  is  a  very  new  idea,  an  idea  greatly  in  fasliion  at  the 
momr.it".  Adonis  calls  for  a  '  pick-me  up'  before  he  has  strength  enough  to 
answer  a  billet-doux  from  Venus.  Adonis  has  not  the  strength  to  get  nobly 
drunk,  but  his  delicate  constitution  requires  stimulants,  and  he  is  always 
tippling. 

"Tlic  men  of  high  birth  or  renown  for  social  success,  belonging,  my  dear 
father,  to  y  nir  tinu,  are  still  distinguished  by  an  air  of  good -breeding,  by  a 
style  of  conv^nSAtion  more  or  le=s  polished,  and  not  without  evidences  of 
literary  culture,  from  men  of  the  same  rank  in  my  generation,  who  appear  to 
pride  themselves  on  respecting  nobody  and  knowing  nothing,  not  even  gram- 
mar. Still  we  are  assured  that  the  world  goes  on  steadily  improving.  That 
new  idea  is  in  full  vijor. 

"Society  in  the  concrete  has  become  wonderfully  conceited  as  to  its  own 
progressive  excellence-,  and  the  individuals  who  form  the  concrete  entertain 
the  same  complacent  opinion  of  themselves.  There  are,  of  course,  even  in 
my  brief  and  imperfect  experience,  many  exceptions  to  what  appear  to  me 
the  prevalent  characteristics  of  the  rising  generation  in  'society.'  Of  these 
exceptions  I  must  content  myself  with  naming  the  most  remarkable.  Flace 
anx  dames,  the  first  I  name  is  Cecilia  Travers.  She  and  her  father  are  now 
in  town,  and  I  meet  them  frequently.  I  can  conceive  no  civilized  era  in  the 
world  which  a  woman  like  Cecilia  Travers  would  not  grace  and  adorn,  be- 
cause she  is  essentially  the  type  of  woman  as  man  likes  to  imagine  woman — 
viz  ,  on  the  fairest  side  of  the  womanly  character.  And  I  say  '  woman  ' 
rather  than  girl,  because  among  '  Girls  of  the  Period'  Cecilia  Travers  cannot 
be  classed.  You  might  call  her  damsel,  virgin,  maiden,  but  you  could  no  more 
call  her  girl  than  you  could  call  a  well-born  French  demoiselle  '■  fille.''  She 
is  hands  )me  enough  to  please  the  eye  of  any  man,  however  fastidious,  but 
not  that  kind  of  beauty  which  dazzles  all  men  too  much  to  fascinate  one  man  ; 
for  —spe  iking,  thank  heaven,  from  mere  theory— I  apprehen  1  that  the  love  f.-r 
woman  has  in  it  a  strong  sense  of  property  ;  that  one  requires  to  individualize 
O'le's  possession  as  being  wholly  one's  own,  and  not  a  possession  which  all  the 
pu')lic  are  invited  to  admire.  I  can  readily  understand  how  a  rich  man,  who 
has  what  is  callel  a  show  place,  in  which  the  splendid  rooms  and  the  stately 
gardens  are  open  to  all  inspector:,  so  that  he  has  no  privacy  in  his  own 
demesnes,  runs  away  to  a  pretty  cottage  which  he  has  all  to  himself,  and  of 
which  he  can  say,  '  This  is  Home — this  is  all  mine.' 

"  B.it  there  are  some  kinds  of  beauty  which  are  eminently  show  places — 
which  the  public  think  they  have  as  much  a  right  to  admire  as  the  owner  has  ; 
an  1  the  s'low  place  itself  would  be  dull,  and  perhaps  fall  out  of  repair,  if  the 
public  could  be  excluded  from  the  sight  of  it. 

"  The  beauty  of  Cecilia  Travers  is  not  that  of  a  show  place.  There  is  a 
feeling  of  safety  in  her.  If  Desdemona  had  been  like  her,  Othello  would  not 
have  been  jealous.  But  then  Cecilia  would  not  have  deceived  her  father — 
nor  I  think  have  told  a  blackamoor  that  she  wished  '  Heaven  had  made  her 
su-hamm.'  Her  mind  harnnnizes  with  her  person — it  is  a  companionable 
min  1.  Her  talents  are  not  showy,  but,  take  them  altogether,  they  form  a 
pleasant  whole  :   she  has  good  sense  enough  in  the  practical  affairs  of  life,  and 


246  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

enough  of  that  ineffable  womanly  gift  called  tact,  to  counteract  the  effects  oi 
whimsical  natures  like  mine,  ancl  yet  enough  sense  of  tlie  huniorisiic  views  of 
life  not  to  take  too  literally  all  that  a  whimsical  man  like  myself  may  say.  As 
to  temper,  one  never  kncjws  what  a  woman's  temjicr  is — till  one  puts  lur  out 
of  it.  Hut  I  iinagine  lieis,  in  its  normal  state,  to  be  serene,  ancl  disposed  to 
be  cheerful.  Now,  my  dear  father,  if  you  were  not  one  of  the  clevere.si  men 
you  would  infer  from  this  eulogistic  mention  oi  Cecilia  Travers  tliat  I  was  in 
love  with  her.  Hut  you  no  doubt  will  detect  the  truth,  that  a  man  in  love 
with  a  woman  does  not  weigh  her  merits  with  so  steady  a  hand  as  that  which 
guides  this  steel  pen.  I  am  not  in  love  with  Cecilia  Travers.  I  wish  J  were. 
When  Lady  Glenalvon,  who  remains  woiiderfidly  kind  to  me,  says,  day  after 
day,  'Cecilia  Travers  would  make  you  a  ]ierfect  wife,'  I  liave  no  answer  to 
give,  but  I  don't  feel  the  least  inclined  to  ask  Cecilia  Travers  if  she  would 
waste  her  perfection  on  one  who  so  coldly  concedes  it. 

"  I  find  that  s!ie  persisted  in  rejecting  the  man  whom  her  father  wished  her 
to  marry,  and  that  he  has  consoled  himself  by  marrying  somebody  else.  No 
doubt  other  suitors  as  worthy  will  soon  present  themselves. 

"  Oh,  dearest  of  all  my  friends — sole  friend  whom  I  regard  as  a  confidant 
— shall  I  ever  be  in  love  ?  and  if  not,  why  not  ?  Sometimes  1  feel  as  if,  with 
love  as  with  ambition,  it  is  because  I  have  some  impossible  ideal  in  endi.  that 
I  must  always  remain  indifferent  to  the  sort  of  love  and  the  sort  of  ambition 
which  are  wiihin  my  reach.  I  have  an  idea  that  if  I  did  love,  I  should  love  as 
intensely  as  Romeo,  and  that  thought  inspiresme  with  vague  forebodii.gs  of  ter- 
ror; and  if  I  did  find  an  object  to  arouse  mv  ainbilion,  T  could  be  as  earnest  in  its 
pursuit  as — whom  shall  I  name? — Caesar  or  Caro  ?  I  like Cato's  ambition  the 
better  of  the  two.  But  peojile  nowadays  call  aml.ition  an  im]iraclicable 
crotchet,  if  it  be  invested  on  the  losing  sitle.  Cato  would  have  saved  Rome 
from  the  mob  and  the  dictator;  but  Rome  could  not  be  saved,  and  Cato  falls 
on  liis  own  sword.  Had  we  a  Cato  now,  the  verdict  at  the  coroner  s  inquest 
would  be,  '  suicide  while  in  a  state  of  unsound  mind  ; '  and  the  verdict  would 
have  been  proved  by  his  senseless  resistance  to  a  mob  and  a  dictator  !  Talking 
of  ambition,  I  come  to  the  other  exception  to  tlie  youth  <  f  the  day — I  have 
named  a  dcvwlscllc,  I  now  name  a  daiiioiseaii.  Imagine  a  man  of  about  five- 
and-twenty,  a. id  who  is  morally  about  fifty  years  older  than  a  hcaliliy  man  of 
sixty, — imagine  him  with  the  brain  of  age  and  the  flower  of  youth — with  a 
heart  absorbed  into  the  brain,  and  giving  v\arm  blood  to  frigid  ideas — a  man 
who  sneers  at  eveiything  I  call  lofty,  yet  would  do  nothing  that  /v^  tliinks  mean 
— to  whom  vice  and  virtue  are  as  indifferent  as  they  were  to  llie  /Estiietics  of 
Goethe — wlio  would  never  jeopardize  his  caf-er  as  a]iractical  reasoner  by  an 
i-npriident  virtue,  and  never  sully  his  reputatian  by  a  degrading  vice.  Imagine 
this  mm  with  an  intellect  keen,  strong,  ready,  unscrupulous,  dauntless— all 
cleverness  and  no  genius.  Imagine  this  man,  and  then  do  not  be  astonisilied 
when  I  tell  you  he  is  a  Chillingly. 

'*  The  Chillingly  race  culminates  in  him,  and  l)ecomes  Chilliiiglyest.  In 
fact,  it  seems  to  me  that  we  live  in  a  day  precisely  suited  to  the  Chillingly 
idiosyncr.ifies.  During  the  ten  centuries  or  more  that  our  race  has  held  local 
habitation  and  a  name,  it  has  been  as  airy  nothings.  Its  representatives  lived 
in  hot-blooded  times,  and  were  compelled  to  skulk  in  still  water  with  their 
emblematic  Daces.  But  the  times  now,  my  dear  father,  are  so  cold-blooded 
that  you  can't  be  too  cold-blooded  to  prosper.  What  could  Chillingly  Mivers 
liave  been  in  an  age  when  people  cared  two]5encehalfpenny  about  their  relig- 
ious creeds,  and  their  policiial  parties  deemed  their  cause  was  sacred  and 
their  leaders  were  heroes  ?  Chillingly  Mivers  would  not  have  found  five  subscri- 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  247 

hers  to  '  The  Londoner.'  But  now  '  The  Londoner '  is  the  favorite  organ  of  the 
intellectual  public  ;  it  sneers  away  all  the  foundations  of  the  social  sybleni, 
without  an  attempt  at  reconstruction  ;  and  every  new  journal  set  up,  if  it 
keeps  its  head  above  water,  models  itself  on  '  The  Londoner.'  Chillingly 
Mivers  is  a  great  man,  and  the  most  potent  wiiter  of  the  age,  though  nobody 
knows  what  he  has  written.  Chillingly  Gordon  is  a  still  more  notable  instance 
of  the  rise  of  the  Chillingly  worth  in  the  modern  market. 

"  There  is  a  general  impression  in  the  most  authoritative  circles  that  Chill- 
ingly Gordon  will  have  high  rank  in  the  van  of  the  coming  men.  His  confi- 
dence ui  himself  is  so  thoiough  that  it  infects  all  with  whom  he  comes  into 
contact — myself  included. 

"  He  said  to  me  the  other  day,  with  a  sang-froid  Morthy  of  the  iciest 
Chillingly,  '  I  mean  to  be  Prime  Minister  of  England — it  is  only  a  question  of 
time.'  Now,  if  Chillingly  Gordon  is  to  be  Prime  Minister,  it  will  be  hecaufe 
the  increasing  cold  of  our  moral  and  social  atmosphere  will  exactly  suit  the 
development  of  his  talents. 

"  He  is  the  man  above  all  others  to  argue  down  the  declaimers  of  old- 
fashioned  sentimentalities,  love  of  country,  care  for  its  position  among  nations, 
zeal  for  its  honor,  pride  in  its  renown.  (Oh,  if  you  could  hear  him  philosophi- 
cally and  logically  sneer  away  the  word  '  prestige'  !)  Such  nolions  are  fast 
being  classified  as  '  bosh.'  And  when  that  classification  is  comjilele, — when 
England  has  no  colonies  to  defend,  no  navy  to  pay  for,  no  interest  in  the  af- 
fairs of  other  nations,  and  has  attained  to  the  happy  condition  of  Holland, — 
then  Chillingly  Gordon  will  be  her  Prime  Minister. 

"  Yet  while,  if  ever  I  am  stung  into  political  action,  it  will  I'e  by  abne- 
gation of  the  Chillingly  attributes,  and  in  opposition,  however  hopeless,  to 
Chillingly  Gordon,  I  feel  that  this  man  cannot  Le  suppressed  and  ouglu  to 
have  fair  play  ;  his  ambition  will  be  infinitely  more  dangirous  if  it  become 
soured  by  delay.  I  propose,  my  dear  father,  that  you  should  have  the  honor 
of  laying  this  clever  kinsman  under  an  oMigaticn,  and  enabling  him  to  enter 
Parliament.  In  our  last  conversation  at  Exmundham,  you  told  me  of  the 
frank  resentment  of  Gordon  pere  when  n>y  coming  into  the  woild  sjiut  him 
out  from  the  Exmundham  inheritance  ;  you  confided  to  me  your  intention  at 
that  time  to  lay  by  yearly  a  sum  that  might  ultimately  stive  as  a  provisif'n  for 
Gordon  y?/j,  and  as  some  compensation  for  the  loss  of  his  expectations  when 
you  realized  your  hope  of  an  heir  ;  you  told  me  also  how  this  generous  in'en- 
tion  on  your  part  had  been  frustrated  by  a  natural  indignatiin  at  the  elder 
Gordon's  conduct  in  his  harassing  and  costly  litigation,  and  by  the  addition 
you  had  been  tempted  to  make  to  thee-tate  in  a  \  urchase  v\hich  added  to  its 
acreage,  but  at  a  rate  of  interest  which  diminished  your  own  income,  and  pre- 
cluded the  possibility  of  further  savings.  Now,  chancing  to  meet  your  lawyer, 
Mr.  Vining,  the  other  day,  I  learned  from  him  that  it  had  been  long  a  wish 
which  your  delicacy  prevented  your  naming  to  me.  that  I,  to  whom  thefee- 
eimple  descends,  should  join  with  you  in  cutting  off  th.e  entail  and  resettling 
the  estate.  He  showed  me  what  an  advantage  this  would  be  to  the  property, 
because  it  would  leave  your  hands  free  for  many  inrprovements,  in  which  I 
heartily  go  with  the  progress  of  the  age,  for  which,  as  merely  tenant  for  life, 
you  could  not  raise  the  money  except  upon  ruinou-;  terms  ;  new  cottages  for 
laborers,  new  buildings  for  tenants,  the  consolidation  of  some  old  mortgages 
and  charges  on  the  rent-roll,  etc.  And  allow  me  to  add  that  1  should  like  to 
make  a  large  increase  to  tlie  jointure  of  my  dear  mother.  Vining  say=,  too, 
that  there  is  a  part  of  the  outlying  land  which,  as  being  near  a  town,  could 
be  sold  to  considerable  jn-ofit  if  the  estate  were  resettled. 


248  KENELM   CHILLIS'GLY. 

"  Let  us  hasten  to  complete  tlie  necessary  deeds,  and  so  obtain  the  /'20,- 
000  retiuired  for  the  realization  of  your  n  )l)lc  and,  let  uie  adtl,  your  just  desire 
to  do  soiiieliiing  for  Chillinj^ly  (iortlon.  In  the  new  deeds  of  settlement  we 
could  insure  the  power  of  wdling  the  e>tate  as  we  pleased  ;  and  I  am  strongly 
against  devising  it  to  Chillingly  Gordon,  It  may  be  a  crotchet  of  mine,  but 
one  which  I  think  you  share,  that  the  owner  of  English  soil  should  have  a 
son's  love  for  the  native  land  ;  and  Gordon  will  never  have  that.  1  think, 
too.  that  it  will  lie  best  for  his  own  career,  and  for  the  establishment  of  a 
frank  understanding  between  us  and  hnnself,  that  he  should  be  fairly  told  that 
he  would  not  be  benefited  in  the  event  of  our  deaths.  Twenty  thousand 
pounds  given  to  him  now  would  be  a  greater  boon  to  him  than  ten  times  the 
sum  twenty  years  later.  With  that  at  his  command,  he  can  enter  Parlia- 
ment, and  have  an  income,  added  to  what  he  now  possesses,  if  modest,  still 
sul'ticient  to  make  him  independent  of  a  Minister's  patronage. 

"  Pray  humor  me,  my  dearest  father,  in  the  proposition  I  venture  to  sub- 
mit to  you. — Your  affectionate  son, 

"  Kenelm." 


FROM    .SIR    PETER    CHILLINGLY   TO   KENEI.M   CHILLINGLY. 

"My  dk.\r  Boy, — You  are  not  worthy  to  be  a  Chillingly;  you  are  de- 
cidedly warm-blooded  :  never  was  a  load  lifted  off  a  man's  mind  with  a  gen- 
tler hand.  Yes,  I  have  wished  to  cut  off  the  entail  and  resettle  the  properly  ; 
but,  as  it  was  eminently  to  my  adv.mtage  to  do  so,  I  shrank  from  asking  it, 
though  eventually  it  would  he  almost  as  much  to  your  own  advantage.  What 
with  the  purchase  I  made  of  the  Kaircleuch  lands — which  I  could  only  effect 
by  money  borrowed  at  high  interest  on  uiy  ])ersonal  security  and  paid  of  by 
yearly  installments,  eating  largely  into  income — and  the  old  mortgages,  etc., 
I  own  I  have  been  pinched  of  late  years.  But  what  rejoices  me  the  most  is 
the  power  to  make  homes  for  our  honest  laborers  more  comfortable,  and 
nearer  to  their  work,  which  last  is  the  chief  point,  fir  the  old  cottages  in 
themselves  are  not  bad  ;  the  misft)rtunc  is,  when  you  build  an  extra  room  for 
the  children  the  silly  people  let  it  out  to  a  lodger. 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  am  very  much  touched  by  your  wish  to  increase  your 
mother's  jointure— a  very  projier  wish,  independently  of  filial  feeling,  for  she 
broui^lit  to  the  estate  a  very  jiretty  fortune,  which  the  trustees  consented  to 
my  investing  in  land  ;  and  though  the  land  completed  our  ring-fence,  it  does 
not  bring  in  two  percent.,  and  the  conditions  of  the  entail  limited  the  right 
of  jointure  to  an  amount  below  that  which  a  widowed  Lady  Chillingly  may 
fairly  expect. 

"  I  care  more  about  the  ]-)rovision  on  these  points  than  T  do  for  the  inter- 
ests of  old  Chillingly  Gordon's  son.  I  had  meant  to  iieliave  very  handsomely 
to  the  father;  and  when  the  return  for  behaving  h.andsomely  is  being  put  into 
Chancery — .V  Worm  Will  Turn.  Nevertheless,  I  agree  with  you  that  a  son 
.should  not  be  punished  for  his  father's  faults;  and  if  the  sacrifice  of  ;^20,ooo 
makes  you  and  myself  feel  that  we  are  better  Christians  and  truer  gentlemen, 
we  shall  buy  that  feeling  very  cheaply." 

Sir  Peter  tlien  proceeded,  half  jestingly,  half  seriously, 
to  combat  Kenclin's  declaration  that  he  was  not  in  love  with 
Cecilia  Travers  ;  and,  urging  the  advantages  of  marriage 
with  one  who  Kenelm  allowed  would  be  a  perfect  wife,  as- 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  249 

tutely  remarded  that,  unless  Kenelm  had  a  son  of  his  own, 
it  did  not  seem  to  him  quite  just  to  the  next  of  kin  to  will 
the  property  from  him,  upon  no  better  plea  than  the  Avant 
of  love  for  his  native  country.  "  He  would  love  his  coun- 
try fast  enough  if  he  had  ten  thousand  acres  in  it." 

Kenelm  shook  his  head  when  he  came  to  this  sentence. 

"  Is  even,  then,  love  for  one's  country  but  cupboard-love 
after  all  ? "  said  he  ;  and  he  postponed  finishing  the  perusal 
of  his  father's  letter. 


CHAPTER   VH. 


Kenelm  Chillingly  did  not  exaggerate  the  social  posi- 
tion he  had  acquired  when  he  classed  himself  amongst  the 
lions  of  the  fashionable  world.  I  dare  not  count  the  num- 
ber of  three-cornered  notes  showered  upon  him  by  the  fine 
ladies  who  grow  romantic  upon  any  kind  of  celebrity  ;  or 
tlie  carefully-sealed  envelopes,  containing  letters  from  fair 
anonymas,  who  asked  if  he  had  a  heart,  and  would  be  in 
such  a  place  in  the  Park  at  such  an  hour.  What  there  was 
in  Kenelm  Chillingly  that  should  make  him  thus  favored, 
especially  by  the  fair  sex,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say,  unless 
it  was  the  twofold  reputation  of  being  unlike  other  people, 
and  of  being  unaffectedly  indifferent  to  the  gain  of  any 
reputation  at  all.  He  might,  had  he  so  pleased,  have  easily 
established  a  proof  that  the  prevalent  though  vague  belief 
in  his  talents  was  not  altogether  unjustified.  For  the  arti- 
cles he  had  sent  from  abroad  to  '  The  Londoner,'  and  by 
which  his  travelling  expenses  were  defrayed,  had  been 
stamped  by  that  sort  of  originality  in  tone  and  treatment 
wliich  rarely  fails  to  excite  curiosity  as  to  the  author,  and 
meets  with  more  general  praise  than  perhaps  it  deserves. 

But  Mivers  was  true  to  his  contract  to  preserve  inviola- 
ble the  incognito  of  the  author,  and  Kenelm  regarded  with 
profound  contempt  the  articles  themselves,  and  the  readers 
who  praised  them. 

Just  as  misanthropy  with  some  persons  grows  out  of 
benevolence  disappointed,  so  there  are  certain  natures — and 
Kenelm  Chillingly's  was  perhaps  one  of  them — in  which  in- 
differentism  grows  out  of  earnestness  baffled. 

He  had  promised  himself  pleasure  in  renewing  acquain- 
1 1* 


250  KEN  ELM   CIllIJJXC  LY. 

tance  witli  liis  old  tutor,  Mr.  Welby — pleasure  in  refreshing 
his  own  taste  for  metaphysics  and  casuistry  and  criticism. 
But  that  accomplished  professor  of  realism  had  retired  from 
philosophy  altogether,  and  was  now  enjoying  a  holiday  for 
life  in  the  business  of  a  public  office.  A  Minister  in  favor 
of  Avhom,  Avhen  in  opposition,  Mr.  Welby,  in  a  moment  of 
whim,  wrote  some  very  able  articles  in  a  leading  journal, 
had,  on  acceding  to  power,  presented  the  realist  with  one 
of  those  few  good  things  still  left  to  Ministerial  patronage 
— a  place  worth  about  ^1200  a  year.  His  mornings  thus 
engaged  in  routine  work,  Mr.  Welby  enjoyed  his  evenings 
in  a  convivial  way. 

"  iHvciii  portuui"  he  said  1  >  Kenelm  :  "  I  plunge  into  no 
troubled  waters  nov/.  But  come  and  dine  with  me  to-mor- 
row tcte-a-t'te.  My  wife  is  at  St.  Leonard's  with  my  young- 
est born  for  the  benefit  of  sea-air."  Kenelm  accepted  the 
invitation. 

The  dinner  would  have  contented  a  Brillat-Savarin — it 
was  faultless  ;  and  the  claret  was  that  rare  nectar,  the  Lafitte 
of  1848. 

"I  never  share  this,"  said  Welby,  "with  more  than  one 
friend  at  a  time." 

Kenelm  sought  to  engage  his  host  in  discussion  on  certain 
new  works  in  vogue,  and  which  were  composed  according  to 
purely  realistic  canons  of  criticism.  "I'lie  more  realistic 
these  books  pretend  to  be,  the  less  real  they  are,"  said  Ken^ 
elm.  "I  am  half  inclined  to  think  that  the  whole  school 
you  so  systematically  sought  to  build  up  is  a  mistake,  and 
that  realism  in  art  is  a  thing  impossible." 

"  I  daresay  you  are  right.  I  took  up  that  school  in  earnest 
because  I  was  in  a  passion  with  pretenders  to  the  Idealistic 
school  ;  and  whatever  one  takes  up  in  earnest  is  generally  a 
mistake,  especially  if  one  is  in  a  passion.  I  was  not  in  earnest 
and  I  was  not  in  a  passion  when  I  wrote  those  articles  to 
which  I  am  indebted  for  my  office."  Mr  Welby  here  luxu- 
riously stretched  his  limbs,  and,  lifting  his  glass  to  his  lips, 
voluptuously  inhaled  its  bouquet. 

"  Vou  sadden  mc,"  returned  Kenelm.  "  It  is  a  melan- 
chcjly  thing  to  find  that  one's  mind  was  inthienced  in  youth 
by  a  teacher  who  mocks  at  his  own  teachings." 

Welby  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Life  consists  in  the 
alternate  process  of  learning  and  unlearning  ;  but  it  is  often 
wiser  to  unlearn  than  to  learn.  For  the  rest,  as  I  have  ceased 
to  be  a  critic,  1  care  little  whether  1  was  wiong  (n'  right  when 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  251 

I  played  that  part.  I  think  I  am  right  now  as  a  placeman. 
Let  the  world  go  its  own  way,  provided  the  world  lets  you 
live  upon  it.  I  drain  my  wine  to  the  lees,  and  cut  down  hope 
to  the  brief  span  of  life.  Reject  realism  in  art  if  you  please, 
and  accept  realism  in  conduct.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life 
I  am  comfortable  :  my  mind,  having  worn  out  its  walking- 
shoes,  is  now  enjoying  the  luxury  of  slippers.  Who  can 
deny  the  realism  of  comfort?" 

"  Has  a  man  a  right,"  Kenelm  said  to  himself,  as  he  en- 
tered his  brougham,  "  to  employ  all  the  brilliancy  of  a  rare 
■vv-it — all  the  acquisitions  of  as  rare  a  scholarship — to  the 
scaring  of  the  young  generation  out  of  tlie  safe  old  roads 
which  youth  left  to  itself  would  take — old  roads  skirted  by 
romantic  rivers  and  bowery  trees— directing  them  into  new 
paths  on  long  sandy  flats,  and  then,  when  they  are  faint  and 
footsore,  to  tell  them  that  he  cares  not  a  pin  whether  they 
have  worn  out  their  shoes  in  right  paths  or  wrong  paths,  for 
that  he  has  attained  the  sutnmum  bonum  of  philosophy  in  the 
comfort  of  easy  slippers  ?  " 

Before  he  could  answer  the  question  he  thus  put  to  him- 
self, his  brougham  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  Minister  whom 
Welby  had  contributed  to  bring  into  power. 

That  night  there  was  a  crowded  muster  of  the  fashionable 
world  at  the  great  man's  house.  It  happened  to  be  a  very 
critical  moment  for  the  Minister.  The  fate  of  his  Cabinet 
depended  on  the  result  of  a  motion  about  to  be  made  the  fol- 
lowing week  in  the  House  of  Commons.  The  great  man 
stood  at  the  entrance  of  the  apartments  to  receive  his  guests, 
and  among  the  guests  were  the  framers  of  the  hostile  motion 
and  the  leaders  of  the  Opposition.  His  smile  was  not  less 
gracious  to  them  than  to  his  dearest  friends  and  stanchest 
supporters. 

"  I  suppose  this  is  realism,"  said  Kenelm  to  himself  ;  "  but 
it  is  not  truth,  and  it  is  not  comfort."  Leaning  against  the 
wall  near  the  doorway,  he  contemplated  with  grave  interest 
the  striking  countenance  of  his  distinguished  host.  He  de- 
tected beneath  that  courteous  smile  and  that  urbane  manner 
the  signs  of  care.  The  eye  was  absent,  the  cheek  pinched, 
the  brow  furrowed.  Kenelm  turned  away  his  looks,  and 
glanced  over  the  animated  countenances  of  the  idle  loungers 
along  commoner  thoroughfares  in  life.  Their  eyes  were  not 
absent,  their  brows  were  not  furrowed  ;  their  minds  seemed 
quite  at  liome  in  exchanging  nothings.  Interest  many  of 
them  had  in  the  approaching  struggle,  but  it  was  mu(-h  such 


252  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

an  interest  as  betters  of  small  sums  may  have  on  the  Derby 
day — just  enough  to  give  piquancy  to  the  race  ;  nothing  to 
nialce  gain  a  great  joy,  or  loss  a  keen  anguish. 

"  Our  host  is  looking  ill,"  said  Mivers,  accosting  Kenelm. 
"I  detect  symptoms  of  suppressed  gout.  You  kncnv  my 
aphorism,  'nothing  so  gouty  as  ambition,' especially  Parlia- 
mentary ambition." 

"  You  are  not  one  of  those  friends  who  press  on  my  choice 
of  life  that  source  of  disease  ;  allow  me  to  thank  ycju." 

"Your  thanks  are  misplaced.  I  strongly  advise  you  to 
devote  yourself  to  a  political  career." 

"  Despite  the  gout  ? " 

"  Despite  the  gout.  If  you  could  take  the  world  as  I  do, 
my  advice  might  be  different.  But  your  mind  is  overcrowd- 
ed with  doubts  and  fantasies  and  crotchets,  and  you  have  no 
choice  but  to  give  them  vent  in  active  life." 

"  You  had  something  to  do  in  making  me  what  I  am — an 
idler;  something  to  answer  for  as  to  my  doubts,  fantasies, 
and  crotchets.  It  was  by  your  recommendation  that  I  was 
placed  under  the  tuition  of  Mr.  Welby,  and  at  that  critical 
age  in  which  the  bent  of  the  twig  forms  the  shape  of  the 
tree." 

"And  I  pride  myself  on  that  counsel.  I  repeat  the  rea- 
sons for  which  I  gave  it  :  it  is  an  incalculable  advantage  for 
a  young  man  to  start  in  life  thoroughly  initiated  into  the 
New  Ideas  which  will  more  or  less  influence  his  generation. 
Welby  was  the  ablest  representative  of  these  ideas.  It  is  a 
wondrous  good  fortune  when  the  propagandist  of  the  New 
Ideas  is  something  more  than  a  bookish  philosopher — when 
he  is  a  thorough  '  man  of  the  world,'  and  is  what  we  emphat- 
ically call  '  practical.'  Yes,  you  owe  me  much  that  I  secured 
to  you  such  tuition,  and  saved  vou  from  twaddle  and  senti- 
ment, the  poetry  of  Wordsworth  and  the  muscular  Chris- 
tianity of  cousin  John." 

"  What  you  say  that  you  saved  me  from  might  have  done 
me  more  good  than  all  you  conferred  on  me.  I  suspect  that 
when  education  succeeds  in  placing  an  old  head  upon  young 
shoulders  the  combination  is  not  healthful — it  clogs  the 
blood  and  slackens  the  pulse.  However,  I  must  not  be  un- 
grateful ;  you  meant  kindly.  Yes,  I  suppose  Welby  is  prac- 
tical ;  he  has  no  belief,  and  he  has  got  a  place.  But  our 
host,  I  presume,  is  also  practical  ;  his  place  is  a  much  higher 
one  than  Welby's,  and  yet  he  surely  is  not  without  belief  ?" 

"  He  was  bcjrn  before  the  new  ideas  came  into  practical 


KRNELM   CHILLINGLY.  .  253 

force  ;  but  in  proportion  as  they  have  done  so,  his  beliefs 
have  necessarily  disappeared.  I  don't  suppose  that  he  be- 
lieves in  much  now,  except  the  two  propositions  :  firstly, 
that  if  he  accept  the  new  ideas,  he  will  have  power  and  keep 
it,  and  if  he  does  not  accef  t  them,  power  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion ;  and  secondly,  that  if  the  new  ideas  are  to  prevail,  he 
is  the  best  man  to  direct  them  safely, — beliefs  quite  enough 
for  a  Minister.     No  wise  Minister  should  have  more." 

"Does  he  not  believe  that  the  motion  he  is  to  resist  next 
week  is  a  bad  one  ?  " 

"A  bad  one  of  course,  in  its  consequences,  for  if  it  suc- 
ceed it  will  upset  him  ;  a  good  one  in  itself  I  am  sure  he 
must  think  it,  for  he  would  bring  it  on  himself  if  he  were  in 
opposition." 

"  I  see  that  Pope's  definition  is  still  true,  '  Party  is  the 
madness  of  the  many  for  the  gain  of  the  few.'  " 

"No,  it  is  not  true.  Madness  is  a  w^'ong  word  applied 
to  the  many  ;  the  many  are  sane  enough— they  know  their 
own  objects,  and  they  make  use  of  the  intellect  of  the  few  in 
order  to  gain  their  objects.  In  each  party  it  is  the  many 
that  control  the  few  who  nominally  lead  them.  A  man  be- 
comes Prime  Minister  because  he  seems  to  the  many  of  his 
party  the  fittest  person  to  carry  out  their  views.  If  he  pre- 
sume to  differ  from  these  views,  they  put  him  into  a  moral 
pillory  and  pelt  him  with  their  dirtiest  stones  and  their  rot- 
tenest  eggs." 

"  Then  the  maxim  should  be  reversed,  and  party  is  rather 
the  madness  of  the  few  for  the  gain  of  the  many  ?  " 

*'Of  the  two,  that  is  the  more  correct  definition." 

"  Let  me  keep  my  senses  and  decline  to  be  one  of  the 

few." 

Kenelm  moved  away  from  his  cousin's  side,  and,  enter- 
ing one  of  the  less  crowded  rooms,  saw  Cecilia  Travers 
seated  there  in  a  recess  with  Lady  Glenalvon.  He  joined 
them,  and,  after  a  brief  interchange  of  a  few  commonplaces, 
Lady  Glenalvon  quitted  her  post  to  accost  a  foreign  ambas- 
sadress, and  Kenelm  sank  into  the  chair  she  vacated. 

It  was  a  relief  to  his  eye  to  contemplate  Cecilia's  candid 
brow  ;  to  his  ear  to  hearken  to  tlx;  soft  voice  that  had  no 
artificial  tones  and  uttered  no  cynical  witticisms. 

*' Don't  you  think  it  strange,"  said  Kenelm,  "that  we 
English  should  so  mould  all  our  habits  as  to  make  even 
what  we  call  pleasure  as  little  pleasurable  as  possible  ?  We 
are  now  in  the  beginning  of  June,  the  fresh  outburst  of  sum- 


254  KEN  ELM   C/JILLINGLY. 

nicr,  when  every  day  in  the  country  is  a  delight  to  eye  and 
ear,  and  we  say,  '  the  season  for  hot  rooms  is  beginning.' 
We  alone  of  civilized  races  spend  our  summer  in  a  capital, 
and  cling  to  the  country  when  the  trees  are  leafless  and  the 
brooks  frozen." 

"Certainly  that  is  a  mistake  ;  but  I  love  the  country  in 
all  seasons,  even  in  winter." 

"  Provided  the  country  house  is  full  of  London  peo- 
ple ?  " 

'*  No  ;  that  is  rather  a  drawback.  I  never  want  com- 
panions in  the  country." 

"True  ;  I  should  have  remembered  that  you  differ  from 
young  ladies  in  general,  and  make  companions  of  books. 
They  arc  always  more  conversible  in  the  country  than  they 
are  in  town  ;  or  rather,  we  listen  there  to  them  with  less  dis- 
tracted attention.  Ha  !  do  I  not  recognize  yonder  the  fair 
whiskers  of  George  Belvoir  ?  Who  is  the  lady  leaning  on 
his  arm  ? " 

"Don't  you  know  ? — Lady  Emily  Belvoir,  his  wife." 

"  Ah  !  I  was  told  that  he  had  married.  The  lady  is  hand- 
some. She  will  become  the  family  diamonds.  Does  she 
read  Blue-books  ?" 

"  I  will  ask  her  if  you  Avish." 

"Nay,  it  is  scarcely  worth  wiiile.  During  my  rambles 
abroad,  I  saw  but  few  English  newspapers.  I  did,  however, 
learn  that  George  had  won  his  election.  Has  he  yet  spoken 
in  Parliament  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  he  moved  the  answer  to  the  address  this  session, 
and  was  much  complimented  on  the  excellent  tone  and  taste 
of  his  speech.  He  spoke  again  a  few  weeks  afterwards,  I 
fear  not  so  successfully." 

"  Coughed  down  ?  " 

"Something  like  it." 

"  Do  him  good  ;  he  will  recover  the  cough,  and  fulfill  my 
prophecy  of  his  success." 

"  Have  you  done  with  poor  George  for  the  present  ?  If 
so,  allow  me  to  ask  whether  you  have  quite  forgotten  Will 
Somers  and  Jessie  Wiles  ?" 

"  Forgotten  them  ?  no," 

"  But  you  have  never  asked  after  them  ?  " 

"  I  took  it  for  granted  that  they  were  as  happy  as  could 
be  expected.     Pray  assure  me  that  they  are." 

"  I  trust  so  now  ;  but  they  have  had  trouble,  and  have 
left  Graveleigh." 


KENELM    CHILI. E\'GLY.  255 

"Trouble!  left  Graveleigh  !  You  make  me  uneasy. 
Pray  explain." 

"  They  had  not  been  three  months  married  and  installed 
in  the  home  they  owed  to  you,  when  poor  Will  was  seized 
witli  a  rheumatic  fever.  He  was  confined  to  his  bed  for 
many  weeks  ;  and  when  at  last  he  could  move  from  it,  was 
so  weak  as  to  be  still  unable  to  do  any  work.  During  his 
illness  Jessie  had  no  heart  and  little  leisure  to  attend  to  the 
shop.  Of  course  I — that  is,  my  dear  father — gave  them  all 
necessary  assistance  ;  but " 

"  I  understand  ;  they  were  reduced  to  objects  of  charity. 
Brute  that  I  am,  never  to  have  thought  of  the  duties  I  owed 
to  the  couple  I  had  brought  together.     But  pray  go  on." 

"  You  are  aware  that  just  before  you  left  us  my  father 
received  a  proposal  to  exchange  his  property  at  Graveleigh 
for  some  lands  more  desirable  to  him  ?  " 

"  I  remember.     He  closed  with  that  offer  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  Captain  Stavers,  the  new  landlord  of  Graveleigh, 
seems  to  be  a  very  bad  man  ;  and  though  he  could  not  turn 
the  Somerses  out  of  the  cottage  so  long  as  they  paid  rent — 
which  we  took  care  they  did  pay — yet  out  of  a  very  wicked 
spite  he  set  up  a  rival  shop  in  one  of  his  other  cottages  in  the 
village,  and  it  became  impossible  for  these  poor  young  peo- 
ple to  get  a  livelihood  at  Graveleigh." 

"What  excuse  for  spite  against  so  harmless  a  young 
couple  could  Captain  Stavers  find  or  invent  ?  " 

Cecilia  looked  down  and  colored.  "  It  was  a  revengeful 
feeling  against  Jessie." 

"  Ah  !  I  comprehend." 

*'  But  they  have  now  left  the  village,  and  are  happily  set- 
tled elsewhere.  Will  has  recovered  his  health,  and  they  are 
prospering — much  more  than  they  could  ever  have  done  at 
Graveleigh." 

"In  that  change  you  were  their  benefactress,  Miss 
Travers?"  said  Kenelm,  in  a  more  tender  voice  and  with 
a  softer  eye  than  he  had  ever  before  evinced  towards  the 
heiress. 

"  No,  it  is  not  I  whom  they  have  to  thank  and  bless." 

"Who,  then,  is  it  ?     Your  father?" 

"  No.  Do  not  question  me  ;  I  am  bound  not  to  say. 
They  do  not  themselves  know  ;  they  rather  believe  that  their 
gratitude  is  due  to  you." 

"  To  me  !  Am  I'to  be  forever  a  sham  in  spite  of  myself  ? 
My  dear  Miss  Travers,  it  is  essential  to  my  honor  that  I 


256  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

should   undeceive    this    credulous  pair  ;    where   can  I  find 
them  ?" 

"  I  must  not  say  ;  but  I  will  ask  permission  of  their  con- 
cealed benefactor,  and  send  you  their  address." 

A  touch  was  laid  on  Kenelm's  arm,  and  a  voice  whispered, 
"  May  I  ask  you  to  present  me  to  Miss  Travers  ?" 

"Miss  Travers,"  said  Kenelm,  "  I  entreat  you  to  add  to 
the  list  of  your  acquaintances  a  cousin  of  mine — Mr.  Chil- 
lingly Gordon." 

While  Gordon  addressed  to  Cecilia  the  well-bred  conven- 
tionalisms with  which  acquaintance  in  London  drawing- 
rooms  usually  commences,  Kenelm,  obedient  to  a  sign  from 
Lady  Glenalvon,  who  had  just  re-entered  the  room,  quitted 
his  seat,  and  jcnned  the  Marchioness. 

"  Is  not  that  young  man  whom  you  left  talki'ng  with 
Miss  Trav'ers  your  clever  cousin  Gordon  ?  " 

"  The  same." 

"  She  is  listening  to  him  with  great  attention.  How  his 
face  brightens  up  as  he  talks  !  He  is  positively  handsome, 
thus  animated." 

"  Yes,  I  could  fancy  him  a  dangerous  wooer.  He  has  wit, 
and  liveliness,  and  audacity  ;  he  could  be  very  much  in  love 
with  a  great  fortune,  and  talk  to  the  owner  of  it  with  a  fervor 
rarely  exhibited  by  a  Chillingly.  Well,  it  is  no  affair  of 
mine." 

"  It  ought  to  be." 

"  Alas  and  alas  !  that  'ought  to  be  ;'  what  depths  of  sor- 
rowful meaning  lie  within  that  simple  phrase  !  How  happy 
would  be  our  lives,  how  grand  our  actions,  how  pure  our 
souls,  if  all  could  be  with  us  as  it  ought  to  be  ! " 


CHAPTER    VIII. 


We  often  form  cordial  intimacies  in  the  confined  society 
of  a  country  house,  or  a  quiet  watering-place,  or  a  small 
Continental  town,  which  fade  away  into  remote  acquaint- 
anceship in  the  mighty  vortex  of  London  life,  neither  party 
being  to  blame  for  the  estrangement.  It  was  so  with  Leo- 
pold Travers  and  Kenelm  Chillingly.  Travers,  as  we  have 
seen,  had  felt  a  powerful  charm  in  the  converse  of  the  young 
stranger,  so  in  contrast  with  the  routine  of  the  rural  com- 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  257 

panionships  to  which  his  alert  intellect  had  for  many  years 
circumscribed  its  range.  But,  on  reappearing  in  l^ondon 
the  season  before  Kenelm  again  met  him,  he  had  renewed 
old  friendships  with  men  of  his  own  standing, — officers  in 
the  regiment  of  which  he  had  once  been  a  popular  ornament, 
some  of  them  still  unmarried,  a  few  of  them  like  himself, 
widowed  ;  others  who  had  been  his  rivals  in  fashion,  and 
were  still  pleasant  idlers  about  town  ;  and  it  rarely  happens 
in  a  metropolis  that  we  have  intimate  friendships  with  those 
of  another  generation,  unless  there  be  some  common  tie  in 
the  cultivation  of  art  and  letters,  or  the  action  of  kindred 
sympathies  in  the  party  strife  of  politics.  Therefore  Travers 
and  Kenelm  had  had  little  familiar  communication  with  each 
other  since  they  first  met  at  the  Beaumanoirs'.  Now  and 
then  they  found  themselves  at  the  same  crowded  assemblies, 
and  interchanged  nods  and  salutations.  But  their  habits 
were  different.  The  houses  at  which  they  were  intimate 
were  not  the  same  ;  neither  did  they  frequent  the  same 
clubs.  Kenelm's  chief  bodily  exercise  was  still  that  of  long 
and  early  rambles  into  rural  suburbs  ;  Leopold's  was  that  of 
a  late  ride  in  the  Row.  Of  the  two,  Leopold  was  much  more 
the  man  of  pleasure.  Once  restored  to  metropolitan  life,  a 
temper  constitutionally  eager,  ardent,  and  convivial,  took 
kindly,  as  in  earlier  youth,  to  its  light  range  of  enjoyments. 

Had  the  intercourse  between  the  two  men  been  as  frankly 
familiar  as  it  had  been  at  Neesdale  Park,  Kenelm  would 
probably  have  seen  much  more  of  Cecilia  at  her  own  home  ; 
and  the  admiration  and  esteem  with  which  she  already  in- 
spired him  might  have  ripened  into  much  warmer  feeling, 
had  he  thus  been  brought  into  clearer  comprehension  of  the 
soft  and  womanly  heart,  and  its  tender  predisposition  towards 
himself. 

He  had  said  somewhat  vaguely  in  his  letter  to  Sir  Peter 
that  "  sometimes  he  felt  as  if  his  indifference  to  love,  as  to 
ambition,  w^as  because  he  had  some  impossible  ideal  in  each." 
Taking  that  conjecture  to  task,  he  could  not  honestly  per- 
suade himself  that  he  had  formed  any  ideal  of  woman  and 
wife  with  which  the  reality  of  Cecilia  Travers  was  at  war. 
On  the  contrary,  the  more  he  thought  over  the  character- 
istics of  Cecilia,  the  more  they  seemed  to  correspond  to  any 
ideal  that  had  floated  before  him  in  the  twilight  of  dreamy 
reverie  ;  and  yet  he  knew  that  he  was  not  in  love  wnth  her, 
that  his  heart  did  not  respond  to  his  reason.  And  mourn- 
fully he  resigned  himself  to  the  conviction  that  nowhere  in 


;«58  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

this  planet,  from  the  normal  pursuits  of  whose  inhabitp-nts 
he  felt  so  estranged,  was  there  waiting  for  him  the  smiling 
playmate,  the  earnest  helpmate.  As  this  conviction  strengtii- 
ened,  so  an  increased  weariness  of  the  artificial  life  of  the 
metropolis,  and  of  all  its  objects  and  amusements,  turned 
his  thoughts  with  an  intense  yearning  towards  the  Bohemian 
freedom  and  fresh  excitements  of  his  foot  ramblings.  He 
often  thought  with  envy  of  the  wandering  minstrel,  and 
wondered  whether,  if  he  again  traversed  the  same  range  of 
country,  he  might  encounter  again  that  vagrant  singer. 


CHAPTER   IX. 


It  is  nearly  a  week  since  Kenelm  had  met  Cecilia,  and  he 
is  sitting  in  his  rooms  with  Lord  Thetford  at  that  hour  of 
three  in  the  afternoon,  which  is  found  the  most  difficult  to 
dispose  of  \)\  idlers  about  town.  Amongst  young  men  of  his 
own  age  and  class  with  whom  Kenelm  assorted  in  the  fashion- 
able world,  perhaps  the  one  whom  he  liked  the  best,  and  of 
whom  he  saw  the  most,  was  this  young  heir  of  the  Beau- 
nmnoirs  ;  and  though  Lord  Thetford  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  direct  stream  of  my  story,  it  is  worth  pausing  a  few 
minutes  to  sketch  an  outline  of  one  of  the  best  whom  the  last 
generation  has  produced  for  a  part  that,  owing  to  accidents 
of  birth  and  fortune,  young  men  like  Lord  Thetford  must 
play  on  that  stage  from  which  the  curtain  is  not  yet  drawn 
up.  Destined  to  be  the  head  of  a  family  that  unites  with 
princelv  possessions  and  an  historical  name  a  keen  though 
honorable  ainbition  for  political  power.  Lord  Thetford  has 
been  carefully  educated,  especially  in  the  new  ideas  of  his 
time.  His  father,  though  a  man  of  no  ordinary  talents,  has 
never  taken  a  prominent  part  in  public  life.  He  desires  his 
eldest  son  to  do  so.  The  Beaumanoirs  have  been  Whigs  from 
the  time  of  William  HI.  They  have  shared  the  good  and 
the  ill  fortunes  of  a  party  which,  whether  we  side  with  it  or 
not,  no  politician  who  dreads  extremes  in  the  government  of 
a  State  so  pre-eminently  artificial  that  a  prevalent  extreme  at 
either  end  of  the  balance  would  be  fatal  to  equilibrium,  can 
desire  to  become  extinct  or  feeble  so  long  as  a  constitutional 
monarchy  exists  in  England.     From  the  reign  of  George  I. 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  259 

to  the  death  of  George  IV.,  the  Beaumanoirs  were  in  the 
ascendant.  Visit  their  family  portrait  gallery,  and  you  must 
admire  the  eminence  of  a  house  which,  during  that  interval 
of  less  than  a  century,  contributed  so  many  men  to  the  ser- 
vice of  the  State  or  the  adornment  of  the  Coiirt — so  many 
Ministers,  Ambassadors,  Generals,  Lord  Chamberlains,  and 
Masters  of  the  Horse.  When  tlie  younger  Pitt  beat  the  great 
Whig  Houses,  the  Beaumanoirs  vanish  into  comparative 
obscurity  ;  they  re-emerge  with  the  accession  of  William  IV., 
and  once  more  produce  bulwarks  of  the  State  and  ornaments 
of  the  Crown.  The  present  Lord  of  \!>Q?i,\x\\\?iWo\x, poco  ciirante 
in  politics  though  he  be,  has  at  least  held  high  offices  at 
Court  ;  and,  as  a  matter  of  course,  he  is  Lord  Lieutenant  of 
his  county,  as  well  as  Knight  of  the  Garter.  He  is  a  man 
whom  the  chiefs  of  his  party  have  been  accustomed  to  con- 
sulton  critical  questions.  Hegives  hisopinionsconfidentially 
and  modestly,  and  when  they  are  rejected  never  takes  offence. 
He  thinks  that  a  time  is  coming  when  the  head  of  the  Beau- 
manoirs should  descend  into  the  lists  and  fight  hand-to-hand 
with  any  Hodge  or  Hobson  in  the  cause  of  his  country  for 
the  benefit  of  the  Whigs.  Too  lazy  or  too  old  to  do  this 
himself,  he  says  to  his  son,  "You  must  do  it.  Without  effort 
of  mine  the  thing  may  last  my  life  :  it  needs  effort  of  yours 
that  the  thing  may  last  through  your  own." 

Lord  Thetford  cheerfully  responds  to  the  paternal  ad- 
monition. He  curbs  his  natural  inclinations,  which  are 
neither  inelegant  nor  unmanly  ;  for,  on  the  one  side,  he  is 
very  fond  of  music  and  painting,  an  accomplished  amateur, 
and  deemed  a  sound  connoisseur  in  both  ;  and,  on  the  other 
side,  he  has  a  passion  for  all  field  sports,  and  especially  for 
hunting.  He  allows  no  such  attractions  to  interfere  with 
diligent  attention  to  the  business  of  the  House  of  Commons. 
He  serves  in  Committees,  he  takes  the  chair  at  public  meet- 
ings on  sanitary  questions  or  projects  for  social  improve- 
ment, and  acquits  himself  well  therein.  He  has  not  yet 
spoken  in  debate,  but  he  has  been  only  two  years  in  Parlia- 
ment, and  he  takes  his  father's  wise  advice  not  to  speak  till 
the  third.  But  he  is  not  without  weight  among  the  well- 
born youth  of  the  party,  and  has  in  him  the  stuff'  out  of 
which,  when  it  becomes  seasoned,  the  Corinthian  capitals 
of  a  Cabinet  may  be  very  effectively  carved.  In  his  own 
heart  he  is  convinced  that  his  party  are  going  too  far  and 
too  fast  ;  but  with  that  party  he  goes  on  light-heartedly, 
ai.d  would  continue  to  do  so  if  they  went  to  Erebus.     But 


26o  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

he  would  prefer  their  going  the  other  way.  For  the  rest,  a 
pleasant  bright-eyed  young  fellow,  with  vivid  animal  spir- 
its ;  and,  in  the  lioliday  moments  of  reprieve  from  public 
duty,  he  brings  sunshine  into  draggling  hunting-fields,  and 
a  fresh  breeze  into  heated  ball-rooms. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Lord  Thetford,  as  he  threw  aside 
his  cigar,  "  I  quite  understand  that  you  bore  yourself — you 
have  nothing  else  to  do." 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  " 

"  Work." 

"  Work  !  " 

"Yes,  you  are  clever  enough  to  feel  that  you  have  a 
mind  ;  and  mind  is  a  restless  inmate  of  body — it  craves  oc- 
cupation of  some  sort,  and  regular  occupation  too  ;  it  needs 
its  daily  constitutional  exercise.  Do  you  give  your  mind 
that  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,  but  my  mind  is  always  busyin.:^ 
itself  about  something  or  other." 

"  In  a  desultory  way — with  no  fixed  object." 

"  True." 

"  Write  a  book,  and  then  it  will  have  its  constitutional." 

"  Nay,  my  mind  is  always  writing  a  book  (though  it  may 
not  publish  one),  always  jotting  down  imjiressions,  or  in- 
venting incidents,  or  investigating  chararters  ;  and  between 
you  and  me,  I  do  not  think  that  I  do  bore  myself  so  much 
as  I  did  formerly.  Other  people  bore  me  more  than  they 
did." 

"  Because  you  will  not  create  an  object  in  common  with 
other  people  :  come  into  Parliament,  side  with  a  party,  and 
you  have  that  object." 

"  Do  you  mean  seriously  to  tell  mc  that  you  are  not 
bored  in  the  House  of  Commons  ?" 

"  With  the  speakers  very  often,  yes  ;  but  with  the  strife 
between  the  speakers,  no.  The  Flouse  of  Commons  life  has 
a  peculiar  excitement  scarcely  understood  out  of  it  ;  but 
you  may  conceive  its  charm  when  you  observe  that  a  man 
who  has  once  been  in  the  thick  of  it  feels  forlorn  and 
shelved  if  he  lose  his  seat,  and  even  repines  when  the  acci- 
dent of  birth  transfers  him  to  the  serener  air  of  the  Upper 
House.     Trv  that  life,  Chillingly." 

"  I  might  if  I  were  an  ultra-Radical,  a  Republican,  a 
Communist,  a  Socialist,  and  wished  to  upset  everything  ex- 
isting,  for  then  the  strife  would  at  least  be  a  very  earnest 
one." 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY.  261 

"  But  could  rot  you  be  equally  in  earnest  against  those 
revolutionary  gentlemen  ?  " 

"  Are  you  and  your  leaders  in  earnest  against  them  ? 
They  don't  appear  to  me  so." 

Thetford  was  silent  for  a  minute.  "  Well,  if  you  doubt 
the  principles  of  my  side,  go  with  the  other  side.  For  my 
part,  I  and  many  of  our  party  would  be  glad  to  see  the 
Conservatives  stronger." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  they  would.  No  sensible  man  likes 
to  be  carried  off  his  legs  by  the  rush  of  the  crowd  behind 
him  ;  and  a  crowd  is  less  headlong  when  it  sees  a  strong 
force  arrayed  against  it  in  front.  But  it  seems  to  me  that, 
at  present^  Conservatism  can  but  be  what  it  now  is — a  party 
that  may  combine  for  resistance,  and  will  not  combine  for 
inventive  construction.  We  are  living  in  an  age  in  which 
the  process  of  unsettlement  is  going  blindly  at  work,  as  if 
impelled  by  a  Nemesis  as  blind  as  itself.  New  ideas  come 
beating  in  surf  and  surge  against  those  Avhich  former  rea- 
soners  had  considered  as  fixed  banks  and  breakwaters  ;  and 
the  new  ideas  are  so  mutable,  so  fickle,  that  those  which 
were  considered  novel  ten  years  ago  are  deemed  obsolete 
to-day,  and  the  new  ones  of  to-day  will  in  their  turn  be  ob- 
solete to-morrow.  And,  in  a  sort  of  fatalism,  you  see  states- 
men yielding  way  to  these  successive  mockeries  of  experi- 
ment— for  they  are  experiments  against  experience — and 
saying  to  each  otlier  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  '  Bis- 
millah,  it  must  be  so  ;  the  country  will  have  it,  even  though 
it  sends  the  country  to  the  dogs.'  I  don't  feel  sure  that  the 
country  will  not  go  there  the  sooner,  if  you  can  only 
strengthen  the  Conservative  element  enough  to  set  it  up  in 
office,  with  the  certainty  of  knocking  it  down  again.  Alas  ! 
I  am  too  dispassionate  a  looker-on  to  be  fit  for  a  partisan  ; 
would  I  were  not.  Address  yourself  to  my  cousin  Gor- 
don." 

"Ay,  Chillingly  Gordon  is  a  coming  man,  and  has  all 
the  earnestness  you  find  absent  in  party  and  in  yourself." 

"  You  call  him  earnest  ? 

"Thoroughly,  in  the  pursuit  of  one  object — the  advance- 
ment of  Chillingly  Gordon.  If  he  gets  into  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  succeed  there,  I  hope  he  will  never  become 
my  leader  ;  for  if  he  thought  Christianity  in  the  way  of  his 
promotion,  he  would  bring  in  a  bill  for  its  abolition." 

"  In  that  case  would  he  still  be  your  leader  ?  " 

"My  dear  Kenelm,  you  don't  know  what  is  the  spirit  of 


262  KENELM   CIIILLLVGLY. 

party,  and  how  easily  it  makes  excuses  for  any  act  of  its 
leader.  Of  course,  if  Gordon  brouglit  in  a  bill  for  the  aboli- 
tion of  Christianity,  it  would  be  on  the  plea  that  the  aboli- 
tion was  good  for  the  Christians,  and  his  followers  would 
cheer  that  enlightened  sentiment." 

"Ah,"  said  Kenelm,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  own  myself  the  dull- 
est of  blockheads;  for  instead  of  tempting  me  into  the  field 
of  party  politics,  your  talk  leaves  me  in  stolid  amaze  that 
you  do  not  take  to  your  heels,  where  honor  can  only  be 
saved  by  flight." 

"  Pooh  !  my  dear  Chillingly,  we  cannot  run  away  from 
the  age  in  which  we  live — we  must  accept  its  conditions  and 
make  the  best  of  them  ;  and  if  the  tlouse  of  Commons  be 
nothing  else,  it  is  a  famous  debating  society  and  a  capital 
club.  Think  over  it.  I  must  leave  you  now.  I  am  going 
to  see  a  picture  at  the  Exhibition  which  has  been  most  trucu- 
lently criticised  in  'The  Londoner,'  but  which  I  am  assured, 
on  good  authority,  is  a  work  of  remarkable  merit.  I  can't 
bear  to  see  a  man  snarled  and  sneered  down,  no  doubt  by 
jealous  rivals,  who  have  their  influence  in  journals,  so  I  shall 
judge  of  the  picture  for  myself.  If  it  be  really  as  good  as  I 
am  told,  i  shall  talk  about  it  to  everybody  I  meet — and  in 
matters  of  art  I  fancy  my  word  goes  for  something.  Study 
art,  my  dear  Kenelm.  No  gentleman's  education  is  com- 
plete if  he  don't  know  a  good  picture  from  a  bad  one. 
After  the  Exhibition  1  shall  just  have  time  for  a  canter 
round  the  Paik  before  the  debate  of  the  session,  which  be- 
gins to-night." 

With  a  light  step  the  young  man  quitted  the  room,  hum- 
ming an  air  from  tlie  "  Figaro"  as  he  descended  the  stairs. 
Frcjui  the  window  Kenelm  watched  him  swinging  himself 
with  careless  grace  into  his  saddle  and  riding  briskly  down 
the  street — in  form  and  face  and  bearing,  a  very  model  of 
young,  high-b(jrn,  high-bred  manhood.  "The  Venetians," 
muttered  Kenelm,  "decapitated  Marino  F'aliero  fcjr  conspir- 
ing against  his  own  order— the  nobles.  The  Venetians 
loved  their  institutions,  and  h;id  faith  in  them.  Is  there 
such  love  and  such  faith  anion«):  the  KnofHsh  ?" 

As  he  thus  soliloquized,  he  heard  a  shrilling  sort  of 
squeak  ;  and  a  showman  stationed  before  his  window  the 
stage  on  which  Punch  satirizes  the  laws  and  moralities  of 
the  world,  "  kills  the  beadle  and  defies  the  devil." 


KENELM    CHILLINGLY.  263 


CHAPTER   X. 

Kenelm  turned  from  the  sight  of  Punch  and  Punch's 
friend  the  cur,  as  his  servant,  entering,  said,  "A  person 
from  the  country,  who  would  not  give  his  name,  asked  to 
see  him." 

Thinking  it  might  be  some  message  from  his  father, 
Kenehn  ordered  the  stranger  to  be  admitted,  and  in  another 
minute  there  entered  a  young  man  of  handsome  counte- 
nance and  powerful  frame,  in  whom,  after  a  surprised  stare, 
Kenelm  recognized  Tom  Bowles.  Difficult  indeed  would 
have  been  that  recognition  to  an  unobservant  beholder : 
no  trace  was  left  of  the  sullen  bully  or  the  village  farrier  ; 
the  expression  of  the  face  was  mild  and  intelligent — more 
bashful  than  hardy  ;  the  brute  strength  of  the  form  had  lost 
its  former  clumsiness,  the  simple  dress  was  that  of  a  gentle- 
man—to use  an  expressive  idiom,  the  whole  man  was  won- 
derfully "  toned  down." 

"I  am  afraid,  sir,  I  am  taking  a  liberty,"  said  Tom, 
rather  nervously,  twidd.ing  his  hat  between  his  fingers. 

"  I  should  be  a  greater  friend  to  liberty  than  I  am  if  it 
were  always  taken  in  the  same  way,"  said  Kenelm,  with  a 
touch  of  his  saturnine  humor  ;  but  then,  yielding  at  once  to 
the  warmer  impulse  of  his  nature,  he  grasped  his  old  antago- 
nist's hand  and  exclaimed,  "  My  dear  Tom,  you  are  so  wel- 
come. I  am  so  glad  to  see  you.  Sit  down,  man — sit  down  ; 
make  yourself  at  home." 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  back  in  England,  sir,  till  with- 
in the  last  few  days  ;  for  you  did  say  that  when  you  came 
back  I  should  see  or  hear  from  you,"  and  there  was  a  tone  of 
reproach  in  the  last  words. 

"  I  am  to  blame  :  forgive  me,"  said  Kenelm,  remorsefully. 
"  But  how  did  you  find  me  out  ?  you  did  not  then,  I  think, 
even  know  my  name.  That,  however,  it  was  easy  enough 
to  discover  ;  but  who  gave  vou  my  address  in  this  lodging  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  it  was  Miss  Travers  ;  and  she  bade  me  come 
to  you.  Otherwise,  as  you  did  not  send  for  me,  it  was 
scarcely  my  place  to  call  uninvited." 

"But,  my  dear  Tom,  I  never  dreamed  that  you  were  in 
London      One  don't  ask  a  man  whom  one  supposes  to  be 


264  KENELM    CHILLINGLY. 

more  than  a  hundred  miles  off  to  pay  one  an  afternoon  call. 
You  are  still  with  your  uncle,  I  presume  ?  And  I  need  not 
ask  if  all  thrives  well  with  you — you  look  a  prosperous  man, 
every  inch  of  you,  from  crown  to  toe." 

"  Yes,"  said  Tom  ;  "  thank  you  kindly,  sir,  I  am  doing 
well  in  the  way  of  business,  and  my  uncle  is  to  give  me  up 
the  whole  concern  at  Christmas." 

While  Tom  thus  spoke,  Kenelm  had  summoned  his  ser- 
vant, and  ordered  up  such  refreshments  as  could  be  found 
in  the  larder  of  a  bachelor  in  lodgings.  "And  what  brings 
you  to  town,  Tom." 

"  Miss  Travers  wrote  to  me  about  a  little  business  which 
she  was  good  enough  to  manage  for  me,  and  said  you 
wished  to  know  about  it  ;  and  so,  after  turning  it  over  in 
my  mind  for  a  few  days,  I  resolved  to  come  to  town  : 
"indeed,"  added  Tom,  heartily,  "  I  did  wish  to  see  your  face 
again." 

"  But  you  talk  riddles.  What  business  of  yours  could 
Miss  Travers  imagine  I  wished  to  know  about  ?  " 

Tom  colored  high,  and  looked  very  embarrassed. 
Luckily,  the  servant  here  entering  with  the  refreshmcnt- 
tray  allowed  him  time  to  recover  himself.  Kenelm  helped 
him  to  a  liberal  slice  of  cold  pigeon-pie,  pressed  wine  on 
him,  and  did  not  renew  the  subject  till  he  thouglit  his 
guest's  tongue  was  likely  to  be  more  freely  set  loose  ;  then 
he  said,  laying  a  friendly  hand  on  Tom's  shoulder,  "I  have 
been  thinking  over  what  passed  between  me  and  Miss 
Travers.  I  wished  to  have  the  new  address  of  Will  Somers  ; 
she  promised  to  write  to  his  benefactor  to  ask  permission  to 
give  it.     You  are  that  benefactor  ? " 

"  Don't  say  benefactor,  sir.  I  will  tell  you  how  it  came 
about,  if  you  will  let  me.  You  see,  I  sold  my  little  place 
at  Graveleigh  to  the  new  Squire,  and  when  mother  removed 
to  Luscombe  to  be  near  me,  she  told  me  how  poor  Jessie 
had  been  annoyed  by  Captain  Stavers,  who  seems  to  think 
his  purchase  included  the  young  woman  on  the  property 
along  with  the  standing  timber  ;  and  I  was  half  afraid  that 
she  had  given  some  cause  for  liis  persecution,  for  you  know 
she  has  a  blink  of  those  soft  eyes  of  hers  that  might  charm 
a  wise  man  out  of  his  skin,  and  put  a  fool  there  instead." 

"  But  I  hope  she  has  done  with  those  blinks  since  her 
marriage." 

"Well,  and  I  honestly  think  she  has.  It  is  certain  slie 
did    not    encourage   Captain   Stavers,    for  I    went    over   to 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  265 

Graveleigh  myself  on  the  sly,  and  lodged  concealed  with 
one  of  the  cottagers  who  owed  me  a  kindness  ;  and  one  day, 
as  I  was  at  watch,  I  saw  the  Captain  peering  over  the  stile 
which  divides  Holmwood  from  the  glebe— you  remember 
Holmwood  ? " 

"I  can't  say  I  do." 

"  The  footway  from  the  village  to  Squire  Travers's  goes 
through  the  wood  which  is  a  few  hundred  yards  at  the  back 
of  Will  Somers's  orchard.  Presently  the  Captain  drew  him- 
self suddenly  back  from  the  stile,  and  disappeared  among 
the  trees,  and  then  I  saw  Jessie  coming  from  the  orcliard 
with  a  basket  over  her  arm,  and  walking  quick  towards  the 
wood.  Then,  sir,  my  heart  sank.  I  felt  sure  she  was  going 
to  meet  the  Captain.  However,  I  cr:pt  along  the  hedge- 
row, hiding  myself,  and  got  into  the  wood  almost  as  soon  as 
Jessie  got  there,  by  another  way.  Under  the  cover  of  the 
brusluvood  I  stole  on  till  I  saw  the  Captain  come  out  from 
the  copse  on  the  other  side  of  the  path  and  plant  himself 
just  before  Jessie.  Then  I  saw  at  once  I  had  wronged  her. 
She  had  not  expected  to  see  him,  for  she  hastily  turned 
back,  and  began  to  run  homeward  ;  but  he  caught  her  up, 
and  seized  her  by  the  arm.  I  could  not  hear  what  he  said, 
but  I  heard  her  voice  quite  sharp  with  fright  and  anger. 
And  then  he  suddenly  seized  her  round  the  waist,  and  she 
screamed,  and  I  sprang  forward " 

"  And  thrashed  the  Captain  ?" 

"No,  I  did  not,"  said  Tom  ;  I  had  made  a  vow  to  myself 
that  I  never  would  be  violent  again  if  I  could  help  it.  So  I 
took  him  with  one  hand  by  the  cuff  of  the  neck,  and  with 
the  other  by  the  waistband,  and  just  pitched  him  on  a 
bramble-bush— quite  mildly.  He  soon  picked  himself  up, 
for  he  is  a  dapper  little  chap,  and  became  very  blustering 
*and  abusive.  But  I  kept  my  temper,  and  said,  civilly, 
'  Little  gentleman,  hard  w^ords  break  no  bones  ;  but  if  ever 
you  molest  Mrs.  Somers  again,  I  will  carry  you  into  her  or- 
chard, souse  you  into  the  duck-pond  there,  and  call  all  the 
villagers  to  see  you  scramble  out  of  it  again  ;  and  I  will  do 
it  now  if  you  are  not  off.  I  daresay  you  have  heard  of  my 
name— I  am  Tom  Bowles.'  Upon  that,  his  face,  Avhich  was 
before  very  red,  grew  very  white,  and  muttering  something 
I  did  not  hear,  he  walked  away. 

"Jessie — I  mean  Mrs.  Somers — seemed  at  first  as  much 
frightened  at  me  as  she  had  been  at  the  Captain  ;  and 
thouo-h  I  offered  to  walk  with  her  to  Miss  Travers's,  where 


'S3' 

12 


266  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

slie  was  going  with  a  basket  which  the  young  lady  had 
ordered,  she  refused,  and  went  back  home.  I  felt  hurt,  and 
returned  to  my  uncle's  the  same  evening  ;  and  it  was  not 
for  months  that  I  lieard  the  Captain  had  been  spiteful 
enough  to  set  up  an  opposition  shop,  and  that  poor  Will 
had  been  taken  ill,  and  his  wife  was  confined  about  the 
same  time,  and  the  talk  was  that  they  were  in  distress,  and 
might  have  to  be  sold  up. 

"  When  I  heard  all  this,  I  thought  that  after  all  it  was 
my  rough  tongue  that  had  so  angered  the  Captain  and  been 
the  cause  of  his  spite,  and  so  it  was  my  duty  to  make  it  up 
to  poor  Will  and  his  wife.  I  did  not  know  how  to  set 
about  mending  matters,  but  I  thought  I'd  go  and  talk  to 
Miss  Travers  ;  and  if  ever  there  was  a  kind  heart  in  a  girl's 
breast  hers  is  one." 

*•  You  are  right  tliere,!  guess.  What  did  Miss  Travers  say? " 

"Nay  ;  I  hardly  know  what  she  did  say,  but  she  set'me 
thinking,  and  it  struck  me  tliat  Jessie—Mrs.  Somers— had 
better  move  to  a  distance,  and  out  of  the  Captain's  reach, 
and  that  Will  would  do  better  in  a  less  out-of  the  way 
place.  And  then,  by  good  luck,  I  read  in  the  newspapeV 
that  a  stationery  and  fancy-work  lausiness,  with  a  circulating 
library,  was  to  be  sold  on  moderate  terms  at  Moleswich,  the 
other  side  of  London.  So  I  took  the  train  and  went  to  the 
place,  and  thought  the  sliop  would  just  suit  these  young 
folks,  and  not  be  too  mucli  work  for  either  ;  then  I  went  to 
Miss  Travers,  and  I  had  a  lot  of  money  lying  by  me  from 
the  sale  of  the  old  forge  and  premises,  which  I  did  not  know 
what  to  do  with  ;  and  so,  to  cut  short  a  long  story,  I  bought 
the  business,  and  Will  and  his  wife  are  settled  at  Moleswich, 
thriving  and  happy,  I  hope,  sir." 

Tom's  voice  quivered  at  the  last  words,  and  he  turned 
aside  quickly,  passing  his  hands  over  his  eyes. 

Kenclin  was  gi'eatly  moved. 

"And  they  dcjn't  know  what  you  did  for  them  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  not.  I  don't  tliink  Will  would  have  let  him- 
self be  beholden  to  me.  Ah  !  the  lad  has  a  spirit  of  his  own, 
and  Jessie — Mrs.  Somers -would  have  felt  pained  and  hum- 
bled that  I  should  even  think  of  such  a  thing.  Miss  Travers 
managed  it  all.  They  take  the  money  as  a  loan  which  is  to 
be  paid  by  installments.  They  have  sent  Miss  Travers  more 
than  one  installment  already,  so  I  know  they  are  doing 
well." 

"  A  loan  from  Miss  Travers  ?  " 


KENELM   CIIILIJNGLY.  267 

*'  No  ;  Miss  Travers  wanted  to  have  a  share  in  it,  but  I 
begged  her  not.  It  made  me  happy  to  do  what  I  did  all  my- 
self ;  and  Miss  Travers  felt  for  me  and  did  not  press.  They 
perhaps  think  it  is  Squire  Travers  (though  he  is  not  a  man 
who  would  like  to  say  it,  for  fear  it  should  bring  applicants 
on  him),  or  some  other  gentleman  who  takes  an  interest  in 
them." 

"  I  always  said  you  were  a  grand  fellow,  Tom.  But  you 
are  grander  still  than  I  thought  you." 

"  If  there  be  any  good  in  me,  I  owe  it  to  you,  sir.  Think 
what  a  drunken,  violent  brute  I  was  when  I  first  met  you. 
Those  walks  with  you,  and  I  may  say  that  other  gentleman's 
talk,  and  then  that  long  kind  letter  I  had  from  you,  not  signed 
in  your  name,  and  written  from  abroad — all  these  changed 
me,  as  the  child  is  changed  at  nurse." 

"  You  have  evidently  read  a  good  deal  since  we  parted." 

"  Yes  ;  I  belong  to  our  young  men's  library  and  institute  ; 
and  when  of  an  evening  I  get  hold  of  a  book,  especially  a 
pleasant  story-book,  I  don't  care  for  other  company." 

"  Have  you  never  seen  any  other  girl  you  could  care  for 
and  wish  to  marry  ?". 

"  Ah,  sir,"  answered  Tom,  "  a  man  does  not  go  so  mad 
for  a  girl  as  I  did  for  Jessie  Wiles,  and  when  it  is  all  over, 
and  he  has  come  to  his  senses,  put  his  heart  into  joint  again 
as  easily  as  if  it  were  onlv  a  broken  leg.  I  don't  say  that  I 
may  not  live  to  love  and  to  marry  another  woman — it  is  my 
wish  to  do  so.  But  I  know  that  I  shall  love  Jessie  to  my 
dying  day  ;  but  not  sinfully,  sir — not  sinfully.  I  would  not 
wrung  her  by  a  thought." 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

At  last  Kenelm  said,  "  You  promised  to  be  kind  to  that 
little  girl  witli  the  flower-ball  ;  wliat  has  become  of  her  ?" 

"  She  is  quite  well,  thank  you,  sir.  My  aunt  has  taken  a 
great  fancy  to  her,  and  so  has  my  motlicr.  Slie  comes  tc 
them  very  often  of  an  evening,  and  brings  her  work  witli 
her.  A  quick,  intelligent  little  thing,  and  full  of  pretty 
thoughts.  On  Sundays,  if  the  weather  is  fine,  we  stroll  out 
together  in  the  fields." 

"  She  has  been  a  comfort  to  you,  Tom." 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"And' loves  you  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  she  does  ;  an  affectionate,  grateful  child. 

"  She  will  be  a  woman  soon,  Tom,  and  may  love  you  as 
a  woman  tlien." 


268  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

Tom  looked  indignant  and  rather  scornful  at  that  sug- 
gestion, and  hastened  to  revert  to  the  subject  more  imme- 
diately at  his  heart. 

"  Miss  Travers  said  you  would  like  to  call  on  Will  Somers 
and  his  wife  ;  will  you  ?  Moleswich  is  not  far  from  London, 
you  know." 

"Certainly  I  will  call." 

"I  do  hope  you  will  find  them  happy;  and  if  so,  per- 
haps you  will  kindly  let  me  know  ;  and— and— I  wonder 
wliether  Jessie's  child  is  like  her?  It  is  a  boy — somehow 
or  other  I  would  rather  it  had  been  a  girl." 

"I  will  WTite  you  full  particulars.  But  why  not  come 
with  me  ?  " 

"No,  I  don't  think  I  could  do  that,  just  at  present.  It 
unsettled  me  sadly  when  I  did  again  see  her  sweet  face  at 
Graveleigh,  and  she  was  still  afraid  of  me  too! — that  was  a 
sharp  pang." 

"  She  ought  to  know  what  you  have  done  for  her,  and 
will." 

"On  no  account,  sir;  promise  me  that.  I  should  feel 
mean  if  I  humbled  them — that  ^^•ay." 

"  I  understand  ;  though  I  will  not  as  yet  make  you  any 
positive  promise.  Meanwhile,  if  you  are  staying  in  town, 
lodge  with  nie  ;  my  landlady  can  find  you  a  room." 

"  Thank  you  heartily,  sir  ;  but  I  go  back  by  the  evening 
train  ;  and,  bless  me  !  how  late  it  is  now  !  I  must  wish  you 
good-bye.  I  have  some  commissions  to  do  for  my  aunt,  and 
1  must  buy  a  nev\^  doll  for  Susey." 

"  Susey  is  the  name  of  the  little  girl  with  the  flower-ball  ?  " 

"Yes.  I  must  run  off  now  ;  I  feel  quite  light  at  heart 
seeing  you  again  and  finding  that  you  receive  me  still  as 
kindly,  as  if  we  were  equals." 

"Ah,  Tom,  I  wish  I  was  your  equal — nay,  half  as  noble 
as  heaven  has  made  you  !  " 

Tom  laughed  incredulously,  and  went  his  way. 

"This  mischievous  passion  of  love,"  saidKenelm  to  him- 
self, "  has  its  good  side,  it  seems,  after  all.  If  it  was  nearly 
making  a  wild  beast  of  that  brave  fellow— nay,  worse  than 
wild  beast,  a  homicide  doomed  to  the  gibbet — so,  on  the  other 
hand,  what  a  refined,  delicate,  chivalrous  nature  of  gentle- 
man it  has  developed  out  of  the  stormy  elements  of  its  first 
madness  !  Yes,  I  will  go  and  look  at  this  new-married  couple. 
I  daresay  they  are  already  snarling  and  spitting  at  each  other 
like  cat  and  dog.     Moleswich  is  within  reach  of  a  walk." 


BOOK  V. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Two  days  after  the  interview  recorded  in  the  last  chapter 
of  the  previous  Book,  Travers,  chancing  to  call  at  Kenelm's 
lodgings,  was  told  by  his  servant  that  Mr.  Chillingly  had 
left  London,  alone,  and  had  given  no  orders  as  to  forward- 
ing letters.  The  servant  did  not  know  where  he  had  gone, 
or  when  he  would  return. 

Travers  repeated  this  news  incidentally  to  Cecilia,  and 
she  felt  somewhat  hurt  that  he  had  not  written  her  a  line 
respecting  Tom's  visit.  She,  however,  guessed  that  he  had 
gone  to  see  the  Somerses,  and  would  return  to  town  in  a 
day  or  so.  But  weeks  passed,  the  season  drew  to  its  close, 
and  of  Kenehn  Chillingly  she  saw  or  heard  nothing  :  he 
had  wholly  vanished  from  the  London  world.  He  had  but 
written  a  line  to  his  servant,  ordering  him  to  repair  to  Ex- 
mundham  and  await  him  there,  and  inclosing  him  a  cheque 
to  pay  outstanding  bills. 

We  must  now  follow  the  devious  steps  of  the  strange  be- 
ing w^ho  has  grown  into  the  hero  of  this  story.  He  had  left 
his  apartment  at  daybreak  long  before  his  servant  was  up, 
with  his  knapsack,  and  a  small  portmanteau,  into  which  he 
had  thrust — besides  such  additional  articles  of  dress  as  he 
thought  he  might  possibly  require,  and  which  his  knapsack 
could  not  contain — a  few  of  his  favorite  books.  Driving 
with  these  in  a  hack-cab  to  the  Vauxhall  station,  he  directed 
the  portmanteau  to  be  forwarded  to  Moleswich,  and,  fling- 
ing the  knapsack  on  his  shoulders,  walked  slowly  along  the 
drowsy  suburbs  that  stretched  far  into  the  landscape,  be- 
fore, breathing  more  freely,  he  found  some  evidences  of 
rural  culture  on  either  side  of  the  high-road.  It  was  not, 
however,  till  he  had  left  the  roofs  and  trees  of  pleasant 
Richmond  far  behind  him  that  he  began  to  feel  he  was  out 
of  reach  of  the  metropolitan  disquieting  influences.  Finding 
at  a  little  inn,  where  he  stopped  to  breakfast,  that  there  was 


270  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

a  path  along  fields,  and  in  sight  of  the  river,  tTiroiigh  which 
he  could  gain  the  place  of  his  destination,  he  then  quitted 
tlie  high-road,  and,  traversing  one  of  the  loveliest  districts 
in  one  of  our  loveliest  counties,  he  reached  Moleswich 
about  noon. 


CHAPTER    II. 


On  entering  the  main  street  of  the  pretty  town,  the 
name  of  Somers,  in  gilt  capitals,  was  sufficiently  conspicu- 
ous over  the  door  of  a  very  imposing  shop.  It  boasted  two 
plate-glass  windows,  atone  of  which  were  tastefully  exhibited 
various  articles  of  fine  stationery,  embroidery  patterns,  etc.  ; 
at  the  otlier,  no  less  tastefully,  simdry  specimens  of  orna- 
mental basket-work, 

Kenelm  crossed  the  threshold  and  recognized  behind  the 
counter — fair  as  ever,  but  with  an  expression  of  face  more 
staid,  and  a  figure  more  rounded  and  matron-like — his  old 
friend  Jessie.  There  were  two  or  three  customers  before 
her,  between  whom  she  was  dividing  her  attention.  While 
a  handsome  young  lady,  seated,  was  saying,  in  a  somewhat 
loud,  but  cheeiy  and  pleasant  voice,  ''Do  not  mind  me,  Mrs. 
Somers — I  can  w^ait,"  Jessie's  quick  eye  darted  towards  the 
stranger,  but  too  rapidly  to  distinguish  his  features,  which, 
indeed,  he  turned  away,  and  began  to  examine  the  baskets. 

In  a  minute  or  so  the  other  customers  were  served  and 
had  departed.  And  the  voice  of  the  lady  was  again  heard 
— "Now,  Mrs.  Somers,  I  want  to  see  your  picture-books  and 
toys.  I  am  giving  a  little  children's  party  this  afternoon, 
and  I  want  to  make  them  as  happy  as  possible." 

"Somewhere  or  other  on  this  planet,  or  before  my  Mo- 
nad was  whisked  away  to  it,  I  have  heard  that  voice,"  mut- 
tered Kenelm.  While  Jessie  was  alertly  bringing  forth  her 
toys  and  picture-books,  she  said,  "  I  am  sorry  to  keep  you 
waiting,  sir  ;  but  if  it  is  the  baskets  you  come  about,  I  can 
call  my  husband." 

"  Do,"  said  Kenelm. 

"William — William,"  cried  Mrs.  Somers;  and  after  a 
delay  long  enough  to  allow  him  to  slip  on  his  jacket,  William 
Somers  emerge!  from  the  back  parlor. 

His  face  had  lost  its  old  trace  of  suffering  and  ill  health  ; 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  271 

it  was  still  somewhat  pale,  and  retained  its  expression  of 
iniellectual  refinement. 

"  How  you  have  improved  in  your  art !  "  said  Kenelm, 
heartily. 

William  started,  and  recognized  Kenelm  at  once.  He 
sprang  forward  and  took  Kenelm's  outstretched  hand  in  both 
his  own,  and,  in  a  voice  between  laughing  and  crying,  ex- 
claimed, "Jessie,  Jessie,  it  is  he! — he  whom  we  pray  for 
every  night.  God  bless  you  !  — God  bless  and  make  you 
as  happy  as  He  permitted  you  to  make  me." 

Before  this  little  speech  was  faltered  out,  Jessie  was  by 
her  husband's  side,  and  she  added  in  a  lower  voice,  but 
tremulous  with  deep  feeling,  "And  me  too  !  " 

"  By  your  leave.  Will,"  said  Kenelm,  and  he  saluted  Jes- 
sie's white  forehead  with  a  kiss  that  could  not  have  been 
kindlier  or  colder  if  it  had  been  her  grandfather's. 

Meanwhile  the  lady  had  risen  noiselessly  and  unobserved, 
and,  stealing  u]d  to  Kenelm,  looked  him  full  in  the  face. 

"You  have  another  friend  here,  sir,  who  has  also  some 
cause  to  thank  you " 

"  I  thought  I  remembered  your  voice,"  said  Kenelm, 
looking  puzzled.  "  But  pardon  me  if  I  cannot  recall  your 
features.     Where  have  we  met  before  ?  " 

"  Give  me  your  arm  when  we  go  out,  and  I  will  bring 
myself  to  your  recollection.  But  no  :  I  must  not  hurry 
you  away  now.  I  will  call  again  in  half  an  hour.  Mrs. 
Somers,  meanwhile  put  up  the  things  I  have  selected.  I 
Avill  take  them  away  with  me  when  I  come  back  from  the 
vicarage,  where  I  have  left  the  pony-carriage."  So,  with  a 
parting  nod  and  smile  to  Kenelm,  she  turned  away,  and 
left  him  bewildered. 

"  But  who  is  that  lady,  Will  ?" 

"A  Mrs.  Braefield.     She  is  a  new-comer." 

"  She  may  well  be  that,  Will,"  said  Jessie,  smiling,  "  for 
she  has  only  been  married  six  months." 

"  And  what  was  her  name  before  she  m^arried  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,  sir.  It  is  only  three  months 
since  we  came  here,  and  she  has  been  very  kind  to  us,  and  an 
excellent  customer.  Everybody  likes  her.  Mr.  Braefield  is 
a  city  gentleman,  and  very  rich  ;  and  they  live  in  the  finest 
house  in  the  place,  and  see  a  great  deal  of  company." 

"  Well,  I  am  no  wiser  than  I  was  before,"  said  Kenelm. 
"  People  who  ask  questions  very  seldom  are." 

"  And  how  did  you  find  us  out,  sir  ?"  said  Jessie.     "  Oh  ! 


272  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

I  guess,"  she  added,  with  an  arch  glance  and  smile.  "Of 
course,  you  have  seen  Miss  Travers,  and  she  told  you." 

"  You  are  right.  I  first  1  :arned  your  change  of  residence 
from  her,  and  thought  I  would  c^me  and  see  you,  and  be 
introduced  to  the  br.by — a  boy,  I  understand  ?  Like  you, 
Will  ? " 

"  No,  sir — the  picture  of  Jessie." 

"Nonsense,  Will;  it  is  you  all  over,  even  to  its  little 
hands." 

"  And  your  good  mother,  Will,  how  did  you  leave  her?  " 

"Oh,  sir  1  "  cried  Jessie,  reproachfully  ;  do  you  think  we 
could  have  the  heart  to  leave  mother — so  lone  and  rheumatic 
too?  She  is  tending  baby  now — always  does  while  I  am  in 
the  shop." 

Here  Kenelm  followed  the  young  couple  into  the  parlor, 
where,  seate'l  by  the  window,  they  found  old  Mrs.  Somers 
reading  the  Bible  and  rocking  the  baby,  who  slept  peace- 
fully in  its  cradle. 

"Will,'  said  Kenelm,  bending  his  dark  face  over  the  infant, 
"1  will  tell  you  a  pretty  thought  of  a  foreign  poet's,  which 
has  been  thus  badly  translated  : 

•'  '  Blest  babe,  a  boundless  world  this  bed  so  narrow  seems  to  thee  ; 

Grow  man,  and  narrower  than  this  bed  the  boundless  world  shall  be.'"  * 

*'  I  don't  think  that  is  true,  sir,"  said  Wdl,  simply  ;  "for 
a  happy  home  is  a  world  wide  eiiougb.  for  any  man." 

Tears  started  into  Jessie's  eyes  ;  she  bent  down  and  kissed 
— not  the  baby — but  tJie  cradle.  "Will  made  it."  She 
added,  blushing,  "I  mean  the  cradle,  sir." 

Time  Hew  past  while  Kenelm  talked  with  Will  and  the  old 
mother,  for  Jessie  was  soon  summoned  back  to  the  shop  ;  and 
Kenelm  was  startled  when  he  found  the  half-hour's  grace 
allowed  to  him  was  over,  and  Jessie  put  her  head  in  at  the 
door  and  said,  "  Mrs.  Braefield  is  waiting  for  you." 

"  Good-bye,  Will  ;  I  shall  come  and  see  you  again  soon  ; 
and  my  mother  gives  me  a  commission  to  buy  I  don't  know 
how  many  specimens  of  your  craft." 

♦  Schiller. 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  i^i 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  SMART  pony-phaeton,  with  a  box  for  a  driver  in  livery 
equally  smart,  stood  at  the  shop-door. 

"Now,  Mr.  Chillingly,"  said  Mrs.  Braefield,  "  it  is  my 
turn    o  run  away  with  you  ;  get  in  !  " 

"Eh!"  murmured  Kenelm,  gazing  at  her  with  large 
dreamy  eyes.     "Is  it  possible  ? " 

"  Quite  possible  ;  get  in.  Coachman,  home  !  Yes,  Mr. 
Chillingy,  you  meet  again  that  giddy  creature  wh^m  you 
threatened  to  thrash  ;  it  would  Iiave  served  her  right.  I 
ougli!:  to  feel  so  ashamed  to  recall  myself  to  your  recollection, 
and  yet  I  am  not  a  bit  ashamed,  I  am  proud  to  show  you 
that  I  have  turned  out  a  steady,  respectable  woman,  and,  my 
husband  tells  me,  a  good  wife." 

*' You  have  only  been  six  months  married,  I  hear,"  sr.id 
Kenelm,  dryly.  "  I  hope  your  husband  will  say  the  same  six 
years  hence." 

"H?  will  say  the  same  sixty  years  hence,  if  we  live  as 
long."       . 

*'  How  old  is  he  now  }" 

"  Thirty-eight." 

"  When  a  man  wants  only  two  years  of  his  hundredth,  h6 
probably  has  learned  to  know  his  own  mind  ;  but  then,  in 
most  cases,  very  little  mind  is  left  to  him  to  know." 

"  Don't  be  satirical,  sir  ;  and  don't  talk  as  if  you  were  rail- 
ing at  marriage,  when  you  have  just  left  as  happy  a  young 
couple  as  the  sun  ever  shone  upon,  and  owing — for  Mrs. 
Somers  has  told  me  all  about  her  marriage — owing  their 
happiness  to  you." 

"  Their  happiness  to  me  !  not  in  the  least.  I  helped  them 
to  marry,  and,  in  spite  of  marriage,  they  helped  each  other 
to  be  happy." 

"  Vou  are  still  unmarried  yourself  ?  " 

"  Yes,  thank  Heaven  !  " 

"  And  are  you  happy  ?  " 

"No  ;  I  can't  make  myself  happy — myself  is  a  disconten- 
ted brute." 

"  Then  why  do  you  say  thank  '  Heaven'  ?  "  * 


274  KRNELM   CHILLINGLY. 

"  Because  it  is  a  comfort  to  think  I  am  not  making  some- 
body else  unhappy." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  if  you  loved  a  wife  who  loved  you, 
you  should  make  her  unhappy  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  ;  but  I  have  not  seen  a  woman 
Avhom  I  could  love  as  a  wife.  And  we  need  not  push  our 
inquiries  further.  What  has  become  of  that  ill-treated  gray 
cob?" 

"  He  was  quite  well,  thank  you,  Avhen  I  last  heard  of  him." 

"And  the  uncle  who  would  have  ii  Hicted  me  upon  you, 
if  yo '.  had  not  so  gallantly  defended  yourself  ?  " 

'He  is  living  where  he  did  live,  and  has  married  his 
housekeeper.  He  felt  a  delicate  scruple  against  taking  that 
s'ep  till  I  was  married  myself,  and  out  of  the  way." 

Here  Mrs.  Braefield,  beginning  to  speak  very  hurriedly, 
as  women  who  seek  to  disguise  emotion  often  do,  informed 
Kenelm  how  unhappy  she  had  felt  for  weeks  after  having 
for  id  an  asylum  with  her  aunt — how  she  had  been  stung  by  re- 
morse c.nd  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  humiliation  at  the  thought 
of  herf(  lly  and  the  odious  recollection  of  Mr.  Compton — how 
.he  had  declared  to  herself  that  she  would  never  marry  any 
one  now — never  !  How  Mr.  Braefield  happened  to  be  on  a 
visit  in  the  neighborhood,  and  saw  her  at  church — how  he 
had  sought  an  introduction  to  her — and  how  at  first  she 
rather  disi.ked  him  than  not ;  but  he  was  so  good  and  so  kind, 
and  when  at  last  he  proposed — and  she  had  frankly  told  him 
all  ;.bout  her  girlish  flight  and  infatuation- — how  generously 
he  had  thanked  her  for  a  candor  which  had  placed  her  as 
high  in  his  esteem  as  she  had  been  before  in  his  love.  "And 
from  that  moment,"  said  Mrs.  Braefield,  passionately,  "my 
whole  heart  leapt  to  him.  And  now  you  know  all.  And 
here  we  are  at  the  Lodge." 

The  pony-phaeton  went  with  great  speed  up  a  broad 
gravel  drive,  bordered  with  rare  evergreens,  and  stopped  at 
a  handsome  house  with  a  portico  in  front,  and  a  long  con- 
servatory at  the  garden  side — one  of  those  houses  which 
belong  to  "city  gentlemen,"  and  often  contain  more  comfort 
and  exhibit  more  luxury  tlian  many  a  stately  manorial  man- 
sion. 

Mrs.  Braefield  evidently  felt  some  pride  as  she  led  Ken- 
elm  through  the  hands(jme  hall,  paved  with  Malvern  tiles 
and  adorned  with  vScagliola  columns,  and  into  a  drawing- 
room  furnished  with  much  taste,  and  opening  on  a  spacious 
flower-garden. 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  275 

"  But  where  is  Mr.  Braefield  ?  "  said  Kenelm. 

"  Oh,  he  has  taken  the  rail  to  his  office  ;  but  he  will  be 
back  long  before  dinner,  and  of  course  you  dine  with  us." 

"  You  are  very  hospitable,  but " 

"No  buts  ;  I  will  take  no  excuse.  Don't  fear  that  you 
shall  have  only  mutton-chops  and  a  rice-pudding- ;  and, 
.besides,  I  have  a  children's  party  coming  at  two  o'clock,  and 
there  will  be  all  sorts  of  fun.  You  are  fond  of  children,  I 
am  sure  ?" 

"  I  rather  think  I  am  not.  But  I  have  never  clearly  as- 
certained my  own  inclinations  upon  that  subject." 

"  Well,  you  shall  have  ample  opportunity  to  do  so  to-day. 
And  oh  !  1  promise  you  the  sight  of  the  loveliest  face  that 
you  can  picture  to  yourself  when  you  think  of  your  future 
wife." 

"  My  future  wife,  I  hope,  is  not  yet  born,"  said  Kenelm, 
wearily,  and  with  much  effort  suppressing  a  yawn.  "  But, 
at  all  events,  I  will  stay  till  after  two  o'clock  ;  for  two 
o'clock,  I  presume,  means  luncheon." 

Mrs.  Braefield  laughed. — "You  retain  vour  appetite  ?" 

"  Most  single  men  do,  provided  they  don't  fall  in  love 
and  become  doubled  up." 

At  this  abominable  attempt  at  a  pun,  Mrs.  Braefield  dis- 
dained to  laugh  ;  but,  turning  away  from  its  perpetrator, 
she  took  off  her  hat  and  gloves  and  passed  her  hands  light- 
ly over  her  forehead,  as  if  to  smooth  back  some  vagrant 
tress  in  locks  already  sufficiently  sheen  and  trim.  She  was 
not  quite  so  pretty  in  female  attire  as  she  had  appeared  in 
boy's  dress,  nor  did  she  look  quite  as  young.  In  all  other 
respects  she  was  wonderfully  improved.  There  was  a  se- 
rener,  a  more  settled  intelligence  in  her  frank  bright  eyes,  a 
milder  expression  in  the  play  of  her  parted  lips.  Kenelm 
gazed  at  her  with  pleased  admiration.  And  as  now,  turning 
from  the  glass,  she  encountered  his  look,  a  deeper  color  came 
into  the  clear  delicacy  of  her  cheeks,  and  the  frank  eyes 
moistened.  She  came  up  to  him  as  he  sat,  and  took  his 
hand  in  both  hers,  pressing  it  warmly.  "Ah,  Mr.  Chilling- 
ly," she  said,  with  impulsive  tremulous  tones,  "look  round, 
look  round  this  happy  peaceful  home  ! — the  life  so  free 
from  a  care,  the  husband  whom  I  so  love  and  honor  ;  all 
the  blessings  that  I  might  have  so  recklessly  lost  forever 
had  I  not  met  with  you,  had  I  been  punished  as  I  deserved. 
How  often  I  thought  of  your  words,  that  'you  would  be 
proud    of    my   friendship    when   we    met   again ' !     What 


276  K'EiVELM   CHILLINGLY. 

strength  they  gave  me  in  my  hours  of  humbled  self-re- 
proach !"  Her  voice  here  died  away  as  if  in  the  effort  to 
suppress  a  sob. 

She   released  his  hand,  and,  before    he   could  answer, 
passed  quickly  through  the  open  sash  into  the  garden. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


The  children  have  come, — some  thirty  of  them,  pretty 
as  English  children  generally  are,  happy  in  the  joy  of  the 
summer  sunshine,  and  the  flower  lawns,  and  the  feast  under 
cover  of  an  awning  suspended  between  chestnut-trees,  and 
carpeted  with  sward. 

No  doubt  Kenelm  held  his  own  at  the  banquet,  and 
did  his  best  to  increase  the  general  gayety,  for  whenever  he 
spoke  the  children  listened  eagerly,  and  when  he  had  done 
they  laughed  mirthfully. 

"The  fair  face  I  promised  you,"  whispered  Mrs.  Brae- 
field,  "  is  not  here  yet.  I  have  a  little  note  from  the  young 
lady  to  say  that  Mrs.  Cameron  does  not  feel  very  well  this 
morning,  but  hopes  to  recover  sufficiently  to  come  later  in 
the  afternoon. 

"And  pray  who  is  Mrs.  Cameron  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  I  forgot  that  you  are  a  stranger  to  the  place. 
Mrs.  Cameron  is  the  aunt  with  whom  Lily  resides.  Is  it 
not  a  pretty  name,  Lily  ? " 

"  Very  !  emblematic  of  a  spinster  that  docs  not  spin, 
witli  a  white  head  and  a  thin  stalk." 

"  Then  the  name  belies  my  Lily,  as  you  \\\\\  see." 

The  children  now  finished  their  feast,  and  bctooK 
themselves  to  dancing  in  an  alley  smoothed  for  a  croquet- 
ground,  and  to  the  sound  of  a  violin  played  by  the  old 
grandfather  of  one  of  the  party.  While  Mrs.  Braefield  was 
busying  herself  with  forming  the  dance,  Kenelm  seized  the 
occasion  to  escape  from  a  young  nymph  of  the  age  of 
twelve  who  had  sat  next  him  at  the  banquet,  and  taken  so 
great  a  fancy  to  him  that  he  began  to  fear  she  would  vow 
never  to  forsake  his  side,  and  stole  away  undetected. 

There  arc  times  when  the  mirth  of  others  only  saddens 
us,  especially  the  mirtli  of  children  with  high  spirits,  that 
jar   on    our   own  quiet  mood.     Gliding  through   a   dense 


KEh'ELM  CHILLINGLY.  277 

shrubbery,  in  which,  though  the  lilacs  were  faded,  the  labur- 
num still  retained  here  and  there  the  waning  gold  of  its 
clusters,  Kenelm  came  into  a  recess  which  bounded  his 
steps  and  invited  him  to  repose.  It  was  a  circle,  so  formed 
artificially  by  slight  trellises,  to  which  clung  parasite  roses 
heavy  with  leaves  and  flowers.  In  the  midst  played  a  tiny 
fountain  with  a  silvery  murmuring  sound  ;  at  the  back- 
ground, dominating  the  place,  rose  the  crests  of  stately 
trees  on  which  the  sunlight  shimmered,  but  which  rampired 
out  all  horizon  beyond.  Even  as  in  life  do  the  great  dom- 
inant passions — love,  ambition,  desire  of  power,  or  gold,  or 
fame,  or  knowledge— form  the  proud  background  to  the 
brief-lived  flowerets  of  our  youth,  lift  our  eyes  beyond  the 
smile  of  their  bloom,  catch  the  glint  of  a  loftier  sunbeam, 
and  yet,  and  yet,  exclude  our  sight  from  the  lengths  and 
the  widths  of  the  space  which  extends  behind  and  beyond 
them. 

Kenelm  threw  himself  on  the  turf  beside  the  fountain. 
From  afar  came  the  whoop  and  the  laugh  of  the  children  in 
their  sports  or  their  dance.  At  the  distance  their  joy  did 
not  sadden  him — he  marvelled  why  ;  and  thus,  in  musing 
reverie,  thought  to  explain  the  why  to  himself. 

"  The  poet,"  so  ran  his  lazy  thinking,  "  has  told  us  that 
'distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view,' and  thus  com- 
pares to  the  charm  of  distance  the  illusion  of  hope.  But 
the  poet  narrows  the  scope  of  liis  own  illustration.  Dis- 
tance lends  enchantment  to  the  ear  as  well  as  to  the  sight  ; 
nor  to  these  bodily  senses  alone.  Memory  no  less  than 
hope  owes  its  charm  to  '  the  far  away.' 

"  I  cannot  imagine  myself  again  a  child  when  I  am  in 
the  midst  of  yon  noisy  children.  But  as  their  noise  reaches 
me  here,  subdued  and  mellowed,  and  knowing,  thank 
Heaven  !  that  the  urchins  are  not  within  reach  of  me,  I 
could  readilv  dream  myself  back  into  childhood,  and  into 
sympathy  witli  the  lost  play  fields  of  school. 

"  So  surely  it  must  be  with  grief  ;  how  different  the  ter- 
rible agony  for  a  beloved  one  just  gone  from  earth,  to  the 
soft  regret  for  one  who  disappeared  into  heaven  years  ago  ! 
So  with  the  art  of  poetry  :  how  imperatively,  when  it  deals 
with  the  great  emotions  of  tragedy,  it  must  remove  the 
actors  from  us,  in  proportion  as  the  emotions  are  to  elevate, 
and  the  tragedy  is  to  please  us  by  the  tears  it  draws  !  Im- 
agine our  shock  if  a  poet  were  to  place  on  the  stage  some 
wise  gentleman  with  whom  we  dined  yesterday,  and  who 


278  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

was  discovered  to  have  killed  his  father  and  married  his 
mother.  But  when  Qidipus  commits  those  unhappy  mis- 
takes nobody  is  shocked.  Oxford  in  the  nineteenth  century 
is  a  long  way  off  from  Thebes  three  thousand  or  four  thou- 
sand years  ago. 

"  And,"  continued  Kenclm,  plunging  deeper  into  the 
maze  of  metaphysical  criticism,  "even where  the  poet  deals 
with  persons  and  things  close  upon  our  daily  sight— if  he 
would  give  them  poetic  charm  he  must  resort  to  a  sort  of 
moral  or  psychological  distance  ;  the  nearer  they  are  to  us 
in  external  circumstance,  the  farther  they  must  be  in  some 
internal  peculiarities.  Werter  and  Clarissa  Harlowe  are 
described  as  contemporaries  of  their  artistic  creation,  and 
with  tlie  minutest  details  of  an  apparent  realism  ;  yet  they 
are  at  once  removed  from  our  daily  lives  by  their  idiosyn- 
crasies and  their  fates.  We  know  that  while  Werter  and 
Clarissa  are  so  near  to  us  in  much  that  we  sympathize  with 
them  as  friends  and  kinsfolk,  they  are  yet  as  much  remote 
from  us  in  the  poetic  and  idealized  side  of  their  natures  as 
if  they  belonged  to  the  age  of  Homer  ;  and  this  it  is  that 
invests  with  charm  the  very  pain  which  their  fate  inflicts 
on  us.  Thus,  I  suppose,  it  must  be  in  love.  If  the  love  we 
feel  is  to  have  the  glamour  of  poetry,  it  must  be  love  for 
some  one  morally  at  a  distance  from  our  ordinary  habitual 
selves  ;  in  short,  differing  from  us  in  attributes  which,  how- 
ever near  we  draw  to  the  possessor,  we  can  never  approach, 
never  blend,  in  attributes  of  our  own  ;  so  that  there  is  some- 
thing in  the  loved  one  that  alwavs  remains  an  ideal — a  mys- 
tery— '  a  sun-bright  summit  mingling  with  the  sky  ! '  " 

Herewith  the  soliloquist's  musings  slided  vaguely  into 
mere  reverie.  He  closed  his  eyes  drowsily,  not  asleep  nor 
yet  quite  awake  :  as  sometimes,  in  bright  summer  days,  when 
we  recline  on  the  grass  we  do  close  our  eyes,  and  yet  dimly 
recognize  a  golden  light  bathing  the  drowsy  lids  ;  and 
athwart  that  light  images  come  and  go  like  dreams,  though 
we  know  that  we  are  not  dreaming 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  279 


CHAPTER    V. 

From  this  state,  half  comatose,  half  unconscious,  Kenelm 
was  roused  slowly,  reluctantly.  Something  struck  softly  on 
his  cheek — again  a  little  less  softly  ;  he  opened  his  eyes — 
they  fell  first  upon  two  tiny  rosebuds,  which,  on  striking  his 
face,  had  fallen  on  his  breast  ;  and  then,  looking  up,  he  saw 
before  him,  in  an  opening  of  the  trellised  circle,  a  female 
child's  laughing  face.  Her  hand  was  still  uplifted  charged 
with  another  rosebud,  but  behind  the  child's  figure,  looking 
over  her  shoulder  and  holding  back  the  menacing  arm,  was 
a  face  as  innocent  but  lovelier  far — the  face  of  a  girl  in  her 
first  youth,  framed  round  with  the  blossoms  that  festooned 
the  trellis.  How  the  face  became  the  fiovvers  !  It  seemed 
the  fairy  spirit  of  them. 

Kenelm  started  and  rose  to  his  feet.  The  child,  the  one 
whom  he  had  so  ungallantly  escaped  from,  ran  towards  him 
through  a  wicket  in  the  circle.  Her  companion  disap- 
peared. 

"Is  it  you?"  said  Kenelm  to  the  child — "you  who 
pelted  me  so  cruelly  ?  Ungrateful  creature  !  E)id  I  not 
give  you  the  best  strawberries  in  the  dish  and  all  my  own 
cream  ?  " 

"  But  why  did  you  run  awav  and  hide  yourself  when  you 
ought  to  be  dancing  with  me?"  replied  the  young  ladv, 
evading,  with  the  instinct  of  her  sex,  all  answer  to  the  re- 
proach she  had  deserved. 

"  I  did  not  run  away,  and  it  is  clear  that  I  did  not  mean 
to  hide  myself,  since  you  so  easily  found  me  out.  But  how 
was  the  young  lady  with  you  ?  I  suspect  she  pelted  me  too, 
for  she  seems  to  have  run  away  to  hide  herself." 

"  No,  she  did  not  pelt  you  ;  she  wanted  to  stop  me,  and 
you  would  have  had  another  rosebud — oh,  so  much  bigger  ! 
— if  she  had  not  held  back  mv  arm.  Don't  you  know  her — 
don't  you  know  Lily  ?  " 

"  No  ;  so  that  is  Lily  ?     You  shall  introduce  me  to  her." 

By  this  time  they  had  passed  out  of  the  circle  through 
the  little  wicket  opposite  the  patii  by  which  Kenelm  had 
entered,  and  opening  at  once  on  the  lawn.  Here  at  some 
distance  the  children  were  grouped,  some  reclined  on  the 
grass,  some  walking  to  and  fro,  in  the  interval  of  the  dance. 


2So  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

In  the  space  between  the  group  and  tlic  trellis,  Lily  was 
walking-  ahjue  and  quickly.  The  child  left  Kenehn's  side 
and  ran  after  her  friend,  soon  overtook,  but  did  not  succeed 
in  arresting  her  steps.  Lily  did  not  pause  till  she  had 
reached  the  grassy  ballroom,  and  here  all  the  children  came 
round  her  and  shut  out  her  delicate  form  from  Kenelm's 
sight. 

Before  he  had  reached  the  place,  Mrs.  Braefield  met 
him. 

"  Lily  is  come  !  " 

"  I  know  it — I  have  seen  her." 

"  Is  not  she  beautiful  ?  " 

"  I  must  see  more  of  her  if  I  am  to  answer  critically  ; 
but  before  you  introduce  me,  may  I  be  permitted  to  ask 
who  and  what  is  Lily  ?  " 

Mrs.  Braefield  paused  a  moment  before  she  answered, 
and  yet  tiie  answer  was  brief  enough  not  to  need  much  con- 
sideration. "  She  is  a  Miss  Mordaunt,  an  orphan  ;  and,  as  I 
before  told  you,  resides  with  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Cameron,  a 
widow.  They  have  the  prettiest  cottage  ycni  ever  saw,  on 
the  banks  of  the  river,  or  rather  rivulet,  about  a  mile  from 
this  place.  Mrs.  Cameron  is  a  very  good,  simple-hearted 
woman.  As  to  Lily,  I  can  praise  her  beauty  only  with  safe 
conscience,  for  as  yet  she  is  a  mere  child — her  mind  quite 
unformed." 

"  J3id  you  ever  meet  any  man,  much  less  any  woman, 
whose  mind  was  formed  ?"  muttered  Kcnelm.  "  I  am  sure 
mine  is  not,  and  never  will  be  on  this  earth." 

Mrs.  Braefield  did  not  hear  this  low-voiced  observation. 
Slie  was  looking  about  for  Lily  ;  and,  perceiving  her  at  last 
as  the  children  who  surrounded  her  were  dispersing  to  re- 
new the  dance,  she  took  Kenelm's  arm,  led  him  to  the  young 
lady,  and  a  formal  introduction  took  place. 

Formal  as  it  could  be  on  those  sunlit  swards,  amidst  the 
joy  of  summer  and  the  laugh  of  children.  In  such  scene  and 
such  circumstance,  formality  does  not  last  long.  I  know 
not  how  it  was,  but  in  a  very  few  minules  Kenelm  and  Lily 
had  ceased  to  be  strangers  to  each  other.  They  found 
themselves  seated  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  merry-makers, 
on  a  bank  shadowed  by  lime-trees  ;  the  man  listening  with 
downcast  eyes,  the  girl  with  mobile  shifting  glances  now  on 
earth  now  on  heaven,  and  talking  freely,  gayly — like  the 
babble  of  a  happy  stream,  with  a  silvery  dulcet  voice,  and  a 
sparKle  of  rippling  smiles. 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  2S1 

No  doubt  this  is  a  reversal  of  the  formalities  of  well-bred 
life,  and  conventional  narrating  thereof.  According  to 
them,  no  doubt,  it  is  for  the  man  to  talk  and  the  maid  to 
listen  ;  but  I  state  the  facts  as  they  were,  honestly.  And 
Lily  knew  no  more  of  the  formalities  of  drawing-room  life 
than  a  skylark  fresh  from  its  nest  knows  of  the  song-teacher 
and  the  cage.  She  was  still  so  much  of  a  child.  Mrs. 
Braefield  was  right — her  mind  was  still  so  unformed. 

What  she  did  talk  about  in  that  first  talk  between  them 
that  could  make  the  meditative  Kenelm  listen  so  mutely,  so 
intently,  I  know  not,  at  least  I  could  not  jot  it  down  on  pa- 
per. I  fear  it  w%as  very  egotistical,  as  the  talk  of  children 
generally  is — about  herself  and  her  aunt,  and  her  home  and 
her  friends — all  her  friends  seemed  children  like  herself, 
though  younger — Clemmy  the  chief  of  them.  Clemmy  was 
the  one  who  had  taken  a  fancy  to  Kenelm.  And  amidst  all 
this  ingenuous  prattle  there  came  flashes  of  a  quick  intellect, 
a  lively  fancy — nay,  even  a  poetry  of  expression  or  of  senti- 
ment. It  might  be  the  talk  of  a  child,  but  certainly  not  of 
a  silly  child. 

But  as  soon  as  the  dance  was  over,  the  little  ones  again 
gathered  round  Lily.  Evidently  she  was  the  prime  favorite 
of  them  all  ;  and  as  her  companion  had  now  become  tired 
of  dancing,  new  sports  were  proposed,  and  Lily  was  carried 
off  to  "  Prisoner's  Base." 

"  I  am  very  happy  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Mr.  Chil- 
lingly," said  a  frank,  pleasant  voice  ;  and  a  well-dressed, 
srood-lookinor  man  held  out  his  hand  to  Kenelm. 

"  My  husband,"  said  Mrs.  Braefield,  with  a  certam  pride 
in  her  look. 

Kenelm  responded  cordially  to  the  civilities  of  the  mas- 
ter of  the  house,  who  had  just  returned  from  his  city  office 
and  left  all  its  cares  behind  him.  You  had  only  to  look  at 
him  to  see  that  he  was  prosperous,  and  deserved  to  be  so. 
There  were  in  his  countenance  the  signs  of  strong  sense,  of 
good-humor— above  all,  of  an  active  energetic  temperament. 
A  man  of  broad  smooth  forehead,  keen  hazel  eyes,  firm  lips 
and  jaw  ;  with  a  happy  contentment  in  himself,  his  house, 
the  world  in  general,  mantling  over  his  genial  smile  and 
outspoken  in  the  metallic  ring  of  his  voice. 

"  You  will  stay  and  dine  with  us,  of  course,"  said  Mr. 
Braefield  ;  "  and,  unless  you  want  very  much  to  be  in  town 
to-night,  I  hope  you  will  take  a  bed  here." 

Kenelm  hesitated. 


2S2  KEKELM   CHILLINGLY, 

"  Do  Stay  at  least  till  to-morrow,"  said  Mrs.  Braefield. 
Kenelm  hesitated  still  ;  and  while  hesitating  his  eye  rested 
on  Lily,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  middle-aged  lady,  and  ap- 
proaching the  hostess — evidently  to  take  leave. 

"  I  cannot  resist  so  tempting  an  invitation,"  said  Ken- 
elm,  and  he  fell  back  a  little  behind  Lily  and  her  com- 
panion. 

"Thank  you  much  for  so  pleasant  a  day,"  said  Mrs. 
Cameron  to  the  hostess.  "  Lily  has  enjoyed  herself  ex- 
tremely.    I  only  regret  we  could  not  come  earlier." 

"  If  you  are  walking  home,"  said  Mr.  Braefield,  "  let  me 
accompany  you.  I  want  to  speak  to  your  gardener  about 
his  heart's-ease — it  is  much  finer  than  mine." 

"  If  so,"  said  Kenelm  to  Lily,  "may  I  come  too  ?  Of  all 
flowers  that  grow,  heart's-ease  is  the  one  I  most  prize." 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  Kenelm  was  walking  by  the 
side  of  Lily  along  the  banks  of  a  little  stream,  tributary  to 
the  Thames — Mrs.  Cameron  and  Mr.  Braefield  in  advance, 
for  the  path  only  held  two  abreast. 

Suddenly  Lily  left  his  side,  allured  by  a  rare  butterfly — 
I  think  it  is  called  the  Emperor  of  Morocco — that  was  sun- 
ning its  yellow  wings  upon  a  group  of  wild  reeds.  She  suc- 
ceeded in  capturing  this  wanderer  in  her  straw  hat,  over 
which  she  drew  her  sun-veil.  After  this  notable  capture  she 
returned  demurely  to  Kenelm's  side. 

"  Do  you  collect  insects  ?  "  said  that  philosopher,  as  much 
surprised  as  it  was  his  nature  to  be  at  anything. 

"  Only  butterflies,"  answered  Lily  ;  "  they  are  not  in- 
sects, you  know  ;  they  are  souls." 

"  Emblems  of  souls,  you  mean — at  least,  so  the  Greeks 
prettilv  represented  them  to  be." 

"  No,  real  souls — the  soids  of  infants  that  die  in  their 
cradles  unbaptized  ;  and  if  they  are  taken  care  of,  and  not 
eaten  by  birds,  and  live  a  year,  then  they  pass  into  fairies." 

"It  is  a  very  poetical  idea.  Miss  Mordaunt,  and  founded 
on  evidence  quite  as  rational  as  other  assertions  of  the  meta- 
morphosis of  one  creature  into  another.  Perhaps  you  can 
do  what  the  philosophers  cannot — tell  me  how  you  learned 
a  new  idea  to  be  an  incontestable  fact  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Lily,  looking  very  much  puz- 
zled ;  "  perhaps  I  learned  it  in  a  book,  or  perhaps  I  dreamed 
it." 

"  You  could  not  make  a  wiser  answer  if  you  were  a  phil- 
osopher.    But  you  talk  of  taking  care  of  butterflies  ;   how 


KEKELM   CHILLINGLY.  283 

do  vou  do  that  ?  Do  you  impale  them  on  pins  stuck  into 
a  glass  case  ?  " 

"  Impale  them  !  How  can  you  talk  so  cruelly  ?  You  de- 
serve to  be  pinched  by  the  Fairies." 

"I  am  afraid,"  thought  Kenelm,  compassionately,  "that 
my  companion  has  no  mind  to  be  formed  ;  what  is  euphoni- 
ously called  'an  Innocent.*" 

He  shook  his  head  and  remained  silent.     Lily  resumed  : 

"  I  will  show  you  my  collection  when  we  get  home — they 
seem  so  happy.  I  am  sure  there  are  some  of  them  who 
know  me — they  will  feed  from  my  hand.  I  have  only  had 
one  die  since  I  began  to  collect  them  last  summer." 

"  Then  you  have  kept  them  a  year  ;  they  ought  to  have 
turned  into  fairies." 

"  I  suppose  many  of  them  have.  Of  course  I  let  out  all 
those  that  liad  been  with  me  twelve  months— they  don't  turn 
to  fairies  in  the  cage,  you  know.  Now  I  have  only  those  I 
caught  this  year,  or  last  autumn  ;  the  prettiest  don't  appear 
till  the  autumn." 

The  girl  here  bent  her  uncovered  head  over  the  straw 
hat,  her  tresses  shadowing  it,  and  uttered  loving  words  to 
the  prisoner.  Then  again  she  looked  up  and  around  her, 
and  abruptly  stopped,  and  exclaimed  : 

"How  can  people  live  in  towns— how  can  people  say 
they  are  ever  dull  in  the  country  ?  Look,"  she  continued, 
gravely  and  earnestly— "  look  at  that  tall  pine-tree,  with  its 
long  iDranch  sweeping  over  the  water;  see  how,  as  the 
breeze  catches  it,  it  changes  its  shadow,  and  how  the  shadow 
changes  the  play  of  the  sunlight  on  the  brook  : — 

'  Wave  your  tops,  ye  pines  ; 
Willi  every  plant,  in  bign  of  worship  wave.' 

What  an  interchange  of  music  there  must  be  between  Nature 
and  a  poet  !  " 

Kenelm  was  startled.  This  "an  innocent"  !— this  a  girl 
who  had  no  mind  to  be  formed  !  In  that  presence  he  could 
not  be  cynical  ;  could  not  speak  of  Nature  as  a  mechanism, 
a  lying  humbug  ;  as  he  had  done  to  the  man  poet.  He  re- 
plied gravely  : 

"the  Creator  has  gifted  the  whole  universe  with  lan- 
guage, but  few  are  the  hearts  that  can  interpret  it.  Happy 
those  to  whom  it  is  no  foreign  tongue,  acquired  imperfectly 
with  care  and  pain,  but  rather  a  native  language,  learned 


2'=!4  KENELM   CHILLIXGLY. 

unconsciously  from  the  lips  of  the  great  mother.  To  them 
the  butterfly's  wing  may  well  buoy  into  heaven  a  fairy's 
soul ! " 

When  he  had  thus  said,  Lily  turned,  and  for  the  first 
time  attentively  looked  into  his  dark  soft  eyes  ;  then  in- 
stinctively she  laid  her  light  hand  on  his  arm,  and  said,  in  a 
low  voice,  "Talk  on— talk  thus  ;  I  like  to  hear  you." 

But  Kenelm  did  not  talk  on.  They  had  now  arrived  at 
the  garden-gate  of  Mrs.  Cameron's  cottage,  and  the  elder 
persons  in  advance  paused  at  tlie  gate  and  walked  with  tliem 
to  the  house. 

It  was  a  long,  low,  irregular  cottage,  without  pretension 
to  architectural  beauty,  yet  exceedingly  picturesque — a 
flower-garden,  large  but  in  proportion  to  the  house,  with 
parterres  in  which  tlie  colors  were  exquisitely  assorted,  slop- 
ing to  the  grassy  margin  of  the  rivulet,  where  the  stream 
expanded  into  a  lake-like  basin,  narrowed  at  either  end  by 
locks,  from  which  with  gentle  sound  flowed  shallow  water- 
falls. By  the  banks  was  a  rustic  seat,  half  overshadowed 
by  the  dropping  boughs  of  a  vast  willow. 

The  inside  of  the  house  was  in  harmony  with  the  exterior 
— cottage-like,  but  with  an  unmistakable  air  of  refinement 
about  the  rooms,  even  in  tlie  little  entrance-hall,  which  was 
painted  in  Pompeian  frescoes. 

"  Come  and  see  my  butterfly-cage,"  said  Lily,  whisper- 
ingly. 

Kenelm  followed  her  through  the  window  that  opened  on 
the  garden  ;  and  at  one  end  of  a  small  conservatory,  or  rather 
greenhouse,  was  the  habitation  of  these  singular  favorites. 
It  was  as  large  as  a  small  room  ;  three  sides  of  it  formed  by 
minute  wirework,  with  occasional  draperies  of  muslin  or 
other  slight  material,  and  covered  at  intervals,  sometimes 
within,  sometimes  without,  by  dainty  creepers  ;  a  tiny  cistern 
in  the  centre,  from  which  upsprang  a  sparkling  jet.  Lily 
cautiouslv  lifted  a  sash  door  and  glided  in,  closing  it  behind 
her.  Her  entrance  set  in  movement  a  multitude  of  gossamer 
wings,  some  fluttering  round  her,  some  more  boldly  settling 
on  her  hair  or  dress.  Kenelm  thought  she  had  not  vainly 
boasted  when  she  said  that  some  of  the  creatures  had  learned 
to  know  her.  She  relieved  the  Emperor  of  Morocco  from  her 
hat ;  it  circled  round  her  fearlessly,  and  then  vanished  amidst 
the  leaves  of  the  creepers.  Lily  opened  the  door  and  came 
out. 

"  I  have  heard  of  a  philosopher  who  tamed  a  wasp,"  said 


KENELM   CHlLLIi^GLY.  285 

Kenelm,  but  never  before  of  a  young  lady  who  tamed  butter- 
Hies." 

"  No,"  said  Lily,  proudly  ;  "  I  believe  I  am  the  first  who 
attempted  it.  I  don't  think  I  should  have  attempted  it  if  I 
had  been  told  that  others  had  succeeded  before  me.  Not 
that  1  have  succeeded  quite.  No  matter  ;  if  they  don't  love 
me,  I  love  them." 

They  re-entered  the  drawing-room,  and  Mrs.  Cameron 
addressed  Kenelm. 

"  Do  you  know  much  of  this  part  of  the  country,  Mr. 
Chillingly  ?  " 

"  It  is  quite  new  to  me,  and  more  rural  than  many  dis- 
tricts farther  from  London." 

"  That  is  the  good  fortune  of  most  of  our  home  counties," 
said  Mr.  Braefield  ;  ''  they  escape  the  smoke  and  din  of  manu- 
facturing towns,  and  agricultural  science  has  not  demolished 
their  leafy  hedgerows.  The  walks  through  our  green  lanes 
are  as  much  bordered  with  convolvulus  and  honeysuckle  as 
they  were  when  Izaak  Walton  sauntered  through  them  to 
angle  in  that  stream  !  " 

"  Does  tradition  say  that  he  angled  in  that  stream  ?  I 
thought  his  haunts  were  rather  on  the  other  side  of  London." 

"Possibly  ;  I  am  not  learned  in  Walton  or  in  his  art,  but 
there  is  an  old  summer-house,  on  the  other  side  of  the  lock 
yonder,  on  which  is  carved  the  name  of  Izaak  Walton,  but 
whether  by  his  own  hand  or  another's  who  shall  say  ?  Has 
Mr.  Melville  been  here  lately,  Mrs.  Cameron? 

"No,  not  for  several  months." 

"He  has  had  a  glorious  success  this  year.  We  may  hope 
that  at  last  his  genius  is  acknowledged  by  the  world.  I 
meant  to  buy  his  picture,  but  I  was  not  in.  time — a  Man- 
chester man  was  before  me." 

"  Who  is  Mr.  Melville  ?  any  relation  to  you  ? "  whispered 
Kenelm  to  Lil)^ 

"Relation! — I  scarcely  know.  Yes,  I  suppose  so,  be- 
cause he  is  my  guardian.  But  if  he  were  the  nearest  rela- 
tion on  earth,  I  could  not  love  him  more,"  said  Lily,  with 
impulsive  eagerness,  her  cheeks  flushing,  her  eyes  filling 
with  tears. 

"And  he  is  an  artist— a  painter?"  asked  Kenelm. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  no  one  paints  such  beautiful  pictures — no 
one  so  clever,  no  one  so  kind." 

Kenelm  strove  to  recollect  if  he  had  ever  heard  the  name 
of  Melville  as  a  painter,   but  in  vain.     Kenelm,   however, 


286  KENELM    CinLLINGLY. 

knew  but  little  of  painters — they  were  not  in  iiis  way  ;  and 
he  owned  to  himself,  very  humbly,  that  there  miglu  be 
many  a  living  painter  of  eminent  renown  whose  name  and 
works  would  be  strange  to  him. 

He  glanced  round  the  wall.  Lily  interpreted  his  look. 
"  There  are  no  pictures  of  his  here,"  said  she  ;  "there  is  one 
in  my  own  room.  I  will  show  it  you  when  you  come 
again." 

"And  now,"  said  Mr.  Braefield,  rising,  "I  must  just 
have  a  word  with  your  gardener,  and  then  go  home.  We 
dine  earlier  here  than  in  London,  Mr.  Chillingly." 

As  the  two  gentlemen,  after  taking  leave,  re-entered  the 
hall,  Lily  followed  them,  and  said  to  Kenelm,  "  What  time 
will  you  come  to-morrow  to  see  the  picture  ?" 

Kenelm  averted  his  head,  and  then  replied,  not  with  his 
wonted  courtesy,  but  briefly  and  brusquely: 

"  I  fear  I  cannot  call  to-morrow.  I  shall  be  far  away  by 
sunrise." 

Lily  made  no  answer,  but  turned  back  into  the  room. 

Mr.  Braefield  found  the  gardener  watering  a  flower- 
border,  conferred  with  him  about  the  heart's-ease,  and  then 
joined  Kenelm,  who  had  halted  a  few  yards  beyond  the 
garden-gate. 

"A  pretty  little  place  that,"  said  Mr.  Braefield,  with  a 
sort  of  lordly  ccjmpassion,  as  became  the  owner  of  Braefield- 
ville.     "What  I  call  quaint." 

"  Yes,  quaint,"  echoed  Kenelm,  abstractedly. 

"It  is  always  the  case  with  houses  enlarged  by  degrees. 
I  have  heard  my  poor  mother  say  that  when  Melville  or  Mrs. 
Cameron  first  bought  it,  it  was  little  better  than  a  mere 
laborer's  cottage,  with  a  field  attached  to  it.  And  two  or 
three  years  afterwards  a  room  or  so  more  was  built,  and  a 
bit  of  the  field  taken  in  for  a  garden  ;  and  then  by  degrees 
the  whole  part  now  inhabited  by  the  family  was  built,  leav- 
ing only  the  old  cottage  as  a  scullery  and  wash-house  ;  and 
the  wh(.ile  field  was  turned  into  the  garden,  as  you  see. 
But  whether  it  was  Melville's  money  or  the  aunt's  that  did 
it,  I  don't  know.  More  likely  the  aunt's.  1  don't  see  what 
interest  Melville  has  in  the  place  ;  he  does  not  go  there 
often,  I  fancy — it  is  not  his  home." 

"Mr.  Melville,  it  seems,  is  a  painter,  and,  from  what  I 
heard  you  say,  a  successful  one." 

"  I  fancy  he  had  little  success  before  this  year.  But 
surely  you  saw  his  pictures  at  the  Exhibition  ? " 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  2^7 

"  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  have  not  been  to  the  Exhi- 
bition." 

"You  surprise  me.  However,  Melville  liad  three  pic- 
tures there — all  very  good  ;  but  the  one  I  wished  to  buy 
made  much  more  sensation  than  the  others,  and  has  sud- 
denly lifted  him  from  obscurity  into  fame." 

'*  He  appears  to  be  a  relation  of  Miss  Mordaunt's,  but 
so  distant  a  one  that  she  could  not  even  tell  me  what  grade 
of  cousinship  he  could  claim." 

"Nor  can  I,  He  is  her  guardian,  I  know.  The  relation- 
ship, if  any,  must,  as  you  say,  be  very  distant  ;  for  Melville 
is  of  humble  extraction,  while  any  one  can  see  that  Mrs. 
Cameron  is  a  thorough  gentlewoman,  and  Lily  Mordaunt  is 
her  sister's  child.  I  have  heard  my  mother  say  that  it  was 
Melville,  then  a  very  young  man,  who  bought  the  cottage, 
perhaps  with  Mrs.  Cameron's  money  ;  saying  it  was  for  a 
widowed  lady,  whose  husband  had  left  her  with  very  small 
means.  And  when  Mrs.  Cameron  arrived  with  Lily,  then  a 
mere  infant,  she  was  in  deep  mourning,  and  a  very  young 
woman  herself,  —  pretty,  too.  If  Melville  had  been  a  fre- 
quent visitor  then,  of  course  there  would  have  been  scandal  ; 
but  he  very  seldom  came,  and  when  he  did,  he  lodged  in  a 
cottage,  Cromwell  Lodge,  on  the  other  side  of  the  brook  ; 
now  and  then  bringing  with  him  a  fellow-lodger — some 
other  young  artist,  I  suppose,  for  the  sake  of  angling.  So 
there  could  be  no  cause  for  scandal,  and  nothing  can  be 
more  blameless  than  poor  Mrs.  Cameron's  life.  My  mother, 
who  then  resided  at  Braefieldville,  took  a  great  fancy  to  both 
Lily  and  her  aunt,  and  when  by  degrees  the  cottage  grew  into 
a  genteel  sort  of  place,  the  few  gentry  in  the  neighborhood 
followed  my  mother's  example  and  were  very  kind  to  Mrs. 
Cameron,  so  that  she  has  now  her  place  in  the  society  about 
here,  and  is  much  liked." 

"And  Mr.  Melville  ?— does  he  still  very  seldom  come 
here  ? " 

"To  say  truth,  he  has  not  been  at  all  since  I  settled  at 
Braefieldville.  The  place  was  left  to  my  mother  for  her  life, 
and  I  was  not  much  there  during  lier  occupation.  In  fact, 
1  was  then  a  junior  partner  in  our  firm,  and  conducted  the 
branch  business  in  New  York,  coming  over  to  England  for 
my  holiday  once  a  year  or  so.  When  my  mother  died,  there 
was  much  to  arrange  before  I  could  settle  personally  in 
England,  and  I  did  not  come  to  settle  at  Braefieldville  till  I 
married.     I  did  see  Melville  on  one  of  my  visits  to  the  place 


288  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

some  years  ago  ;  but,  between  ourselves,  he  is  not  the  sort 
of  person  wliose  intimate  acquaintance  one  would  wish  to 
court.  Mr  mother  told  me  he  was  an  idle,  dissipated  man, 
and  I  have  heard  from  others  that  he  was  very  unsteady. 

Mr. ,  the  great  painter,  told  me  that  he  was  a  loose  fish  ; 

and  I  suppose  his  habits  were  against  his  getting  on,  till 
this  year,  when,  perhaps  by  a  lucky  accident,  he  has  painted 
a  picture  that  raises  him  to  the  top  of  the  tree.  But  is  not 
Miss  Lily  wondrously  nice  to  look  at  ?  What  a  pity  her 
education  has  been  so  much  neglected  !  " 

''Has  it?" 

"  Have  you  not  discovered  that  already  ?  She  has  not 
had  even  a  music-master,  though  my  wife  says  she  has  a 
good  ear  and  can  sing  prettily  enough.  As  for  reading,  I 
don't  think  she  has  read  anything  but  fairy-tales  and  poetry, 
and  such  silly  stuff.  However,  she  is  very  young  yet  ;  and 
now  that  her  guardian  can  sell  his  pictures,  it  is  to  be  hoped 
that  he  will  do  more  justice  to  his  ward.  Painters  and  actors 
are  not  so  regular  in  their  private  lives  as  we  plain  men  are, 
and  great  allowance  is  to  be  made  for  them  ;  still,  every  one 
is  bound  to  d(^  his  duty.    I  am  sure  you  agree  with  me  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  Kenelm,  with  an  emphasis  which 
startled  the  mexxhant.  "That  is  an  admirable  maxim  of 
yours  ;  it  seems  a  commonplace,  yet  how  often,  when  it  is 
put  into  our  heads,  it  strikes  as  a  novelty  !  A  duty  may  be 
a  very  difficult  thing,  a  very  disagreeable  thing,  and,  what 
is  strange,  it  is  often  a  very  invisible  thing.  It  is  present — 
close  before  us,  and  yet  we  don't  see  it  ;  somebody  shouts 
its  name  in  our  ear,  '  Duty,'  and  straight  it  towers  before  us 
a  grim  giant.  Pardon  me  if  I  leave  you — I  can't  stay  to 
dine.  Dutv  summons  me  elsewhere.  Make  my  excuses  to 
Mrs.  Braefi'eld." 

Before  Mr.  Braefield  could  recover  his  self-possession, 
Kenelm  had  vaulted  over  a  stile  and  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  VL 


Kenelm  walked  into  the  shop  kept  by  the  Somerses,  and 
found  Jessie  still  at  the  counter.  "  Give  me  back  my  knap- 
sack. Thank  you,"  he  said.  Hinging  the  knapsack  across  his 
shoulders.     "Now,  do  me  a  favor.     A  portmanteau  of  mine 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  289 

ought  to  be  at  the  station.  Send  for  it,  and  keep  it  till  I  give 
further  directions.  I  think  of  going  to  Oxford  for  a  day  or 
two.  Mrs.  Somers,  one  more  word  with  you.  Think,  answer 
frankly,  are  you,  as  you  said  this  morning,  thoroughly  hap- 
py, and  yet  married  to  the  man  you  loved  ?  " 

"  Oh,  so  happy  !  " 

"  And  wish  for  nothing  beyond  ?  Do  not  wish  Will  to  be 
other  than  he  is  ?  " 

"  God  forbid  !     You  frighten  me,  sir." 

"  Frighten  you  !  Be  it  so.  Every  one  who  is  happy 
should  be  frightened,  lest  happiness  flyaway.  Do  your  best 
to  chain  it,  and  you  will,  for  you  attach  Duty  to  Happiness  ; 
and,"  muttered  Kenelm,  as  he  turned  from  the  shop,  "  Duty 
is  sometimes  not  a  rose-colored  tie,  but  a  heavy  iron-hued 
clog." 

He  strode  on  through  the  street  towards  the  sign-post 
with  "To  Oxford"  inscribed  thereon.  And  whether  he 
spoke  literally  of  the  knapsack,  or  metaphorically  of  Duty, 
he  murmured,  as  he  strode — 

"A  pedlar's  pack  that  bows  the  bearer  down." 


CHAPTER  Vn. 


Kenelm  might  have  reached  Oxford  that  night,  for  he 
was  a  rapid  and  untirable  pedestrian  ;  but  he  halted  a  little 
after  the  moon  rose,  and  laid  himself  down  to  rest  beneath 
a  new-mown  haystack,  not  very  far  from  the  high-road. 

He  did  not  sleep.  Meditatingly  propped  on  his  elbow, 
he  said  to  himself  : 

"  It  is  long  since  I  have  wondered  at  nothing.  I  wonder 
now  :  can  this  be  love — really  love — unmistakably  love  ? 
Pooh  !  it  is  impossible  ;  the  very  last  person  in  the  world  to 
be  in  love  with.  Let  us  reason  upon  it — you,  myself,  and  I. 
To  begin  with— face  !  What  is  face  ?  In  a  few  years  the 
most  beautiful  face  may  be  very  plain.  Take  the  Venus  at 
Florence.  Animate  her  ;  sec  her  ten  years  after;  a  chignon, 
front  teeth  (blue  or  artificially  white),  mottled  complexion, 
double  chin— all  that  sort  of  plump  prettiness  goes  into 
double  chin.  Face,  bah  !  What  man  of  sense— what  pupil 
of  Welby,  the  realist  — can  fall  in  love  with  a  face  ?  and  even 

13 


290  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

if  I  were  simpleton  enough  to  do  so,  pretty  faces  are  as  com- 
mon as  daisies.  Cecilia  Travers  has  more  regular  features; 
Jessie  Wiles  a  richer  coloring.  I  was  not  in  love  with  them 
— not  a  bit  of  it.  Myself,  you  have  nothing  to  say  there. 
Well,  then,  mind  ?  Talk  of  mind,  indeed  !  a  creature  whose 
favorite  companionship  is  that  of  butterflies,  and  who  tells 
me  that  butterflies  are  the  souls  of  infants  unbaptized. 
What  an  article  for  '  The  Londoner,'  on  tl:e  culture  of 
young  women  !  What  a  girl  for  Miss  Garrett  and  Miss 
Emily  Faithful !  Put  aside  Mind  as  we  have  done  Face. 
What  rests  ? — the  Frenchman's  ideal  of  happy  marriage  ? 
congenial  circumstance  of  birth,  fortune,  tastes,  habits. 
AVorse  still.     Myself,  answer  honestly,  arc  you  not  floored  ?  " 

Whereon  "  Myself  "  took  up  the  parable  and  answered, 
"  O  thou  fool  !  why  wert  thou  so  ineffably  blest  in  one 
presence  ?  Why,  in  quitting  that  presence,  did  Duty  become 
so  grim  ?  Why  dost  thou  address  to  me  those  inept  pedan- 
tic questionings,  under  the  light  of  yon  moon,  which  has 
suddenly  ceased  to  be  to  thy  thoughts  an  astronomical  body, 
and  has  become,  forever  and  forever,  identified  in  thy  heart's 
dreams  with  romance  and  poesy  and  first  love  ?  Why,  in- 
stead of  gazing  on  that  uncomfortable  orb,  art  thou  not 
quickening  thy  steps  towards  a  co/.y  inn  and  a  good  supper 
at  Oxford  ?  Kenclm,  my  friend,  thou  art  in  for  it.  No  dis- 
guising the  fact — thou  art  in  love  !  " 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  am,"  said  the  Second  in  the  Dualism 
of  Kenelm's  mind  ;  and  therewith  he  shifted  his  knapsack 
into  a  pillow,  turned  his  eyes  from  the  moon,  and  still  could 
not  sleep.  The  face  of  Lily  still  haunted  his  eyes— the 
voice  of  Lily  still  rang  in  his  ears. 

Oh,  my  reader  !  dost  thou  here  ask  me  to  tell  thee  what 
Lily  was  like  ? — was  slie  dark,  was  she  fair,  was  she  tall,  was 
she  short  ?  Never  shalt  tliou  learn  these  secrets  from  me. 
Imagine  to  thyself  the  being  to  which  thine  whole  of  life, 
l)o:ly  and  mind  and  soul,  moved  irresistibly  as  the  needle  to 
the  pole.  Let  her  be  tall  or  short,  dark  or  fair,  she  is  that 
which  out  of  all  womankind  has  suddenly  become  the  one 
woman  for  thee.  Fortunate  art  thou,  my  reader,  if  thou 
chance  to  have  heard  the  popular  song  of  "  My  Queen  "  sung 
by  the  one  lady  who  alone  can  sing  it  with  expression  wor- 
thy the  verse  of  the  poetess  and  the  music  of  the  composi- 
tion, by  the  sister  of  the  exquisite  songstress.  But  if  thou 
hast  not  heard  the  verse  thus  sung,  to  an  accompaniment 
thus  composed,  still  the  words  themselves  are,  or  ought  to 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  291 

be,  familiar  to  thee,  if  thou  art,  as  I  take  for  granted,  a 
lover  of  the  true  lyrical  muse.  Recall  then  the  words  sup- 
posed to  be  uttered  by  him  who  knows  himself  destined  to 
do  homage  to  one  he  has  not  yet  beheld  : 

*'  She  is  standing  somewhere — she  I  shall  honor, 
She  tliat  I  wait  for,  my  queen,  my  queen- 
Wliether  her  hair  be  golden  or  raven, 
WJiether  her  eyes  be  liazel  or  blue, 
I  know  not  now,  it  will  be  engraven 
Some  day  hence  as  my  loveliest  hue. 

"  She  may  be  humble  or  proud,  my  lady, 

Or  that  sweet  calm  which  is  just  between  ; 

But  whenever  she  comes,  she  will  find  me  ready 

To  do  her  homage,  my  queen,  my  queen." 

Was  it  possible  that  the  cruel  boy-god  "  who  sharpens  his 
arrows  on  the  whetstone  of  the  human  heart  "  had  found  the 
moment  to  avenge  himself  for  the  neglect  of  his  altars  and 
the  scorn  of  his  power  !  Must  that  redoubted  knight-errant, 
the  hero  of  this  tale,  despite  The  Three  Fishes  on  his  charmed 
shield,  at  last  veil  the  crest  and  bow  the  knee,  and  murmur 
to  himself,  "  She  has  come,  my  queen  "  ! 


CHAPTER   VIII. 


The  next  morning  Kenelm  arrived  at  Oxford — "Verum 
secretumque  Mouseion." 

If  there  be  a  place  in  this  busy  island  which  may  distract 
the  passions  of  youth  from  love  to  scholarship,  to  Ritualism, 
to  medireval  associations,  to  that  sort  of  poetical  sentiment  or 
poetical  fanaticism  which  a  Mivers  and  a  Welby  and  an  advo- 
cate of  tlie  Realistic  School  would  hold  in  contempt — cer- 
tainly that  place  is  Oxford.  Home,  nevertheless,  of  great 
thinkers  and  great  actors  in  tlie  practical  world. 

The  vacation  had  not  yet  commenced,  but  the  commence- 
ment was  near  at  hand.  Kenelm  thought  he  could  recognize 
the  leading  meii  by  their  slower  walk  and  more  abstracted 
expression  of  countenance.  Among  the  fellows  was  the  emi- 
nent author  of  that  book  which  had  so  powerfully  fascinated 
the  earlier  adolescence  of  Kenelm  Chillingly,  and  who  had 
himself  been  subject  to  the  fascination  of  a  yet  stronger 


292  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

spirit.  The  Rev.  Decimus  Roach  had  been  ever  an  intense 
and  reverent  admirer  of  John  Henry  Newman — an  admirer,  I 
mean,  of  the  pure  and  lofty  character  of  the  man,  quite  apart 
from  sympathy  with  liis  doctrines.  But  althougli  Roach 
remained  an  unconverted  Protestant  of  orthodox,  if  High 
Church,  creed,  yet  there  was  one  tenet  he  did  liold  in  com- 
mon with  the  author  of  the  '  Apologia.'  He  ranked  celibacy 
among  the  virtues  most  dear  to  Heaven.  In  that  eloquent 
treatise,  '  The  Approach  to  the  Angels,'  he  not  only  main- 
tained that  the  state  of  single  blessedness  was  strictly  incum- 
bent on  every  member  of  a  Christian  priesthood,  but  to  be 
commended  to  the  adoption  of  every  conscientious  layman. 

It  was  the  desire  to  confer  with  this  eminent  theologian 
that  had  induced  Kenelm  to  direct  his  steps  to  Oxford. 

Mr.  Roach  was  a  friend  of  Wclby's,  at  whose  house,  when 
a  pupil,  Kenelm  had  once  or  twice  met  him,  and  been  even 
more  charmed  by  his  conversation  than  by  his  treatise. 
Kenelm  called  on  Mr.  Roach,  who  received  him  very  gra- 
ciously, and,  not  being  a  tutor  or  examiner,  placed  his  time 
at  Kenelm's  disposal  ;  took  him  the  round  of  the  colleges 
and  the  Bodleian  ;  invited  him  to  dine  in  his  college-hall  ; 
and  after  dinner  led  him  into  his  own  rooms  and  gave  him 
an  excellent  bottle  of  Chateau-Margaux. 

Mr.  Roach  was  somewhere  about  fifty — a  good-looking 
man,  and  evidently  thought  himself  so,  for  he  wore  his  hair 
long  behind  and  parted  in  the  middle  ;  which  is  not  done  by 
men  who  form  modest  estimates  of  their  personal  appear- 
ance. 

Kenelm  was  not  long  in  drawing  out  his  host  on  the  sub- 
ject to  which  that  profound  thinker  had  devoted  so  much 
meditation. 

"  I  can  scarcely  convey  to  you,"  said  Kenelm,  "  the  intense 
admiration  with  which  I  have  studied  your  noble  Avork, 
'Approach  to  the  Angels.'  It  produced  a  great  effect  on  me 
in  the  age  between  boyhood  and  youth.  But  of  late  some 
doubts  on  the  universal  application  of  your  doctrine  have 
crept  into  my  mind." 

"Ay,  indeed?"  said  Mr.  Roach,  with  an  expression  of 
interest  in  his  face. 

"And  I  come  to  you  for  their  solution." 

Mr.  Roach  turned  away  his  head,  and  pushed  the  bottle 
to  Kenelm. 

"I  am  quite  willing  to  concede,"  resumed  the  heir  of  the 
Chillinglys,  "  that  a  priesthood  should  stand  apart  from  the 


KENF.LM   CHILLINGL  Y.  293 

distracting  cares  of  a  family,  and  pure  from  all  carnal  affec- 
tions." 

"  Hem,  hem,"  grunted  Mr.  Roach,  taking  his  knee  on  his 
lap  and  caressing  it. 

"  I  go  further,"  continued  Kenelm,  "and  supposing  with 
you  that  the  Confessional  has  all  the  importance,  whether  in 
its  monitory  or  its  cheering  effects  upon  repentant  sinners, 
which  is  attached  to  it  by  the  Roman  Catholics,  and  that  it 
ought  to  be  no  less  cultivated  by  the  Reformed  Church,  it 
seems  to  me  essential  that  the  Confessor  should  have  no 
better  half  to  whom  it  can  be  even  suspected  he  may,  in  an 
unguarded  moment,  hint  at  the  frailties  of  one  of  her  female 
acquaintances." 

"  I  pushed  that  argument  too  far,"  murmured  Roach. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Celibacy  in  the  Confessor  stands  or 
falls  with  the  Confessional.  Your  argument  there  is  as  sound 
as  a  bell.  But  when  it  comes  to  the  layman,  I  think  I  detect 
a  difference." 

Mr.  Roach  shook  his  head,  and  replied,  stoutly,  "  No  ; 
if  celibacy  be  incumbent  on  the  one,  it  is  equally  incumbent 
on  the  other.      I  say  '  if.'  " 

"  Permit  me  to  deny  that  assertion.  Do  not  fear  that  I 
shall  insult  your  understanding  by  the  popular  platitude — 
viz.,  that  if  celibacy  were  universal,  in  a  very  few  years  the 
human  race  would  be  extinct.  As  you  have  justly  obsei-ved, 
in  answer  to  that  fallacy,  '  It  is  the  duty  of  each  human  soul 
to  strive  towards  the  highest  perfection  of  the  spiritual  state 
for  itself,  and  leave  the  fate  of  the  human  race  to  the  care  of 
the  Creator.'  If  celibacy  be  necessary  to  spiritual  perfection, 
how  do  we  know  but  that  it  may  be  the  purpose  and  decree 
of  the  All-Wise  that  the  human  race,  having  attained  to  that 
perfection,  should  disappear  from  earth  ?  Universal  celibacy 
would  thus  be  the  euthanasia  of  mankind.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  the  Creator  decided  that  the  human  race,  having 
culminated  to  this  crowning  but  barren  flower  of  perfection, 
should  nevertheless  continue  to  increase  and  multiply  upon 
earth,  have  you  not  victoriously  exclaimed,  '  Presumptuous 
mortal  !  how  can'st  thou  presume  to  limit  the  resources  of 
the  Almighty?  Would  it  not  be  easy  for  Him  to  continue 
some  other  mode,  unexposed  to  trouble  and  sin  and  passion, 
as  in  the  nuptials  of  the  vegetable  world,  by  which  the 
generations  will  be  renewed  ?  Can  we  suppose  that  the 
angels — the  immortal  companies  of  heaven — are  not  hourly 
increasing    in    number,    and    extending   their     population." 


294  KEMELM  CHILLINGLY. 

throughout  infinity  ?  and  yet  in  heaven  there  is  no  marr}^ 
ing  nor  giving  in  marriage.'— All  this,  clothed  by  you  in 
words  which  my  memory  only  serves  me  to  quote  imper- 
fectly— all  this  I  unhesitatingly   concede." 

Mr.  Roach  rose  and  brought  another  bottle  of  the  Cha- 
teau-Margaux  from  his  cellaret,  filled  Kenelm's  glass,  re- 
seated himself,  and  took  the  other  knee  into  his  lap  to 
caress. 

"  But,"  resumed  Kcnelm,  "  my  doubt  is  this." 
"  Ha  !  "  cried  Mr.  Roach,  ''  Let  us  hear  the  doubt." 
"  In   the  first  place,   is  celibacy  essential  to  the   highest 
state  of  spiritual  perfection  ?  and,  in  the  second  place,  if  it 
were,  are  mortals,  as  at  present  constituted,  capable  of  that 
culmination  ?  " 

"Very  well  put,"  said  Mr.  Roach,  and  he  tossed  off  liis 
glass  with  more  cheerful  aspect  than  he  had  hitherto  ex- 
hibited. 

"  You  see,  said  Kenelm,  "we  are  compelled  in  this,  as  in 
other  questions  of  philosophy,  to  resort  to  the  inductive  pro- 
cess, and  draw  our  theories   from  the  facts  within  our  cog- 
nizance.    Now,  looking  round  the  world,  is  it  the  fact  that 
old  maids  and  old  bachelors  are  so   much  more   spiritually 
advanced   than   married  folks  ?     Do   they  pass  their  time, 
like   an  Indian   dervish,  in  serene  contemplation   of  divine 
excellence  and  beatitude  ?     Are  they  not  quite  as  worldly 
in  their  own  way  as  persons  who  have  been  married  as  often 
as  the  Wife  of   Bath,  and,  generally  speaking,  more  selfish, 
more  frivolous,  and  more  spiteful  ?     I  am  sure  I  don't  wish 
to  speak  uncharitably  against  old  maids  and  old   bachelors. 
I  have  three  aunts  who  are  old   maids,  and  fine  specimens 
of  the  genus  ;  but  I  am  sure  they  would  all  three  have  been 
more  agreeable  companions,  and  quite  as  spiritually  gifted, 
if  they  had  been  happily  married,  and  were  caressing  their 
children  instead  of  lap-dogs.     So,  too,  I  have  an  old-bachelor 
cousin,  Chillingly  Mivers,  whom  you  know.     As  clever  as  a 
man  can  be.      But,  Lord  bless  you  !  as  to  being  wrapt  in 
spiritual  meditation,  he  could  not  be  more  devoted  to  the 
things  of  earth  if  he  had  married  as  many  wives  as  Solomon 
and    had  as   many  children    as   Priam.   '  Finally,    have   not 
half  the  mistakes  in  the  world  arisen  from  a  separation  be- 
tween the  spiritual  and  the  moral  nature  of  man  ?     Is  it  not, 
after  all,  through  his  dealings  with  his  fellow-men  that  man 
makes  his  safest  'approach  to  the  angels  ?'     And  is  not  the 
moral  system  a  very  muscular  system  ?     Does  it  not  require 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGL  V. 


295 


for  liealthful  vigor  plenty  of  continued  exercise,  and  dcjes  it 
not  get  that  exercise  naturally,  by  the  relationships  of  fam- 
ily, with  all  the  wider  collateral  struggles  with  life  which 
the  care  of  family  necessitates  ? 

"  I  put  these  questions  to  you  with  the  humblest  diffi- 
dence. I  expect  to  hear  such  answers  as  will  thoroughly 
convince  my  reason,  and  I  shall  be  delighted  if  so.  For  at 
the  root  of  the  controversy  lies  the  passion  of  love.  And 
love  must  be  a  very  disquieting,  troublesome  emotion,  and 
has  led  many  heroes  and  sages  into  wonderful  weaknesses 
and  follies." 

"  Gently,  gently,  Mr.  Chillingly  ;  don't  exaggerate.  Love, 
no  doubt,  is — ahem — a  disquieting  passion.  Still,  every 
emotion  that  changes  life  from  a  stagnant  pool  into  the 
freshness  and  play  of  a  running  stream  is  disquieting  to  the 
pool.  Not  only  love  and  its  fellow-passions — such  as  am- 
bition—but the  exercise  of  the  reasoning  faculty,  which  is  al- 
ways at  work  in  changing  our  ideas,  is  very  disquieting. 
Love,  Mr.  Chillingly,  has  its  good  side  as  well  as  its  bad. 
Pass  the  bottle." 

Kenelm  (passing  the  bottle). — "  Yes,  yes  ;  you  are  quite 
right  in  putting  the  adversary's  case  strongly  before  you  de- 
molish it — all  good  rhetoricians  do  that  Pardon  me  if  I 
am  up  to  that  trick  in  argument.  Assume  that  I  know  all 
that  can  be  said  in  favor  of  the  abnegation  of  common- 
sense,  euphoniously  called  '  Love,'  and  proceed  to  the  de- 
molition of  the  case." 

The  Rev.  Decimus  Roach  (hesitatingly).-^"  The  demo- 
lition of  the  case  ?  humph  !  The  passions  are  ingrafted  in 
the  human  system  as  part  and  parcel  of  it,  and  are  not  to  be 
demolished  so  easily  as  you  seem  to  think.  Love,  taken  ra- 
tionally and  morally  by  a  man  of  good  education  and  sound 
principles,  is — is " 

Kenelm.—"  Well,  is  what  ?  " 

The  Rev.  Decimus  Roach. — "A— a — a — thing  not  to  be 
despised.  Like  the  sun,  it  is  the  great  colorist  of  life,  Mr. 
Chillingly.  And  you  are  so  right — the  moral  system  does 
require  daily  exercise.  What  can  give  that  exercise  to  a 
solitary  man,  when  he  arrives  at  the  practical  age  in  which 
he  cannot  sit  for  six  hours  at  a  stretch  musing  on  the  di- 
vine essence,  and  rheumatism  or  other  ailments  forbid  his 
adventure  into  the  wilds  of  Africa  as  a  missionary  ?  At 
that  age.  Nature,  which  will  be  heard,  Mr.  Chillingly,  de- 
inands  her  rights.  A  sympathizing  female  companion  by  one's 


296  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

side  ;  innocent  little  children  climbing  one's  knee, — lovely, 
bewitching  picture  !  Who  can  be  Goth  enough  to  rub  it 
out,  who  fanatic  enough  to  paint  over  it  the  image  of  a  St. 
Simon  sitting  alone  on  a  pillar  !  Take  another  glass.  You 
don't  drink  enough,  Mr.  Chillingly." 

"1  have  drunk  enough,"  replied  Kenelm,  in  a  sullen 
voice,  "■  to  think  I  see  double.  1  imagined  that  before  me 
sat  the  austere  adversary  of  the  insanity  of  love  and  the 
rniseries  of  wedlock.  Now  I  fancy  I  listen  to  a  puling  sen- 
timentalist uttering  the  platitudes  which  the  other  Decimus 
Roach  had  already  refuted.  Certainly  either  I  see  double, 
or  you  amuse  yourself  with  mocking  my  appeal  to  your 
wisdom." 

"  Not  so,  Mr.  Chillingly.  But  the  fact  is,  that  when  T 
wrote  that  book  of  which  you  speak,  I  was  young,  and 
youth  is  enthusiastic  and  one-sided.  Now,  with  the  same  dis- 
dain of  the  excesses  to  which  love  may  hurry  weak  intel- 
lects, I  recognize  its  benignant  effects  when  taken,  as  I  be- 
fore said,  rationally — taken  rationally,  my  young  friend.  At 
that  period  of  life  when  the  judgment  is  matured,  the 
soothing  companionship  of  an  amiable  female  cannot  but 
cheer  the  mind  and  prevent  that  morose  hoar-frost  into 
which  solitude  is  chilled  and  made  rigid  by  increasing  years. 
In  short,  Mr.  Chillingly,  having  convinced  myself  that  I 
erred  in  the  opinion  once  too  rashly  put  forth,  I  owe  it  to 
Truth,  I  owe  it  to  Mankind,  to  make  my  conversion  known 
to  the  world.  And  I  am  about  next  month  to  enter  into  the 
matrimonial  state  with  a  young  lady  who " 

"  Say  no  more,  say  no  more,  Mr.  Roach.  It  must  be  a 
painful  subject  to  you.      Let  us  drop  it." 

"It  is  not  a  painful  subject  at  all!"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Roach,  with  warmth.  "  I  look  forward  to  the  fulfilment  of 
my  duty  with  the  pleasure  which  a  well-trained  mind  always 
ought  to  feel  in  recanting  a  fallacious  doctrine.  But  you 
do  me  the  justice  to  understand  that  of  course  I  do  not  take 
this  step  I  propose — for  my  personal  satisfaction.  No,  sir, 
it  is  the  value  of  my  example  to  others,  which  purifies  my 
motives  and  animates  my  soul." 

After  this  concluding  and  noble  sentence,  the  conversa- 
tion drooped.  Host  and  guest  both  felt  they  had  liad 
enough  of  each  other.     Kenelm  soon  rose  to  depart. 

Mr.  Roach,  on  taking  leave  of  him  at  the  door,  said, 
with  marked  emphasis  : 

"  Not    for  my    personal    satisfaction— remember    that, 


KEN  ELM    ClllLLlXCLY.  297 

Whenever  you  hear  my  conversion  discussed  in  the  world, 
say  that  from  my  own  lips  ycni  heard  these  words — not  for 
MY  PERSONAL  SATISFACTION.  No !  My  kind  regards  to  Welby 
— a  married  man  himself,  and  a  father  ;  he  will  understand 
me." 


CHAPTER  IX. 


On  quitting  Oxford,  Kenelm  wandered  for  several  days 
about  the  country,  advancing  to  no  definite  goal,  meeting 
with  no  noticeable  adventure.  At  last  he  found  himself 
mechanically  retracing  his  steps.  A  magnetic  influence  he 
could  not  resist  drew  him  back  towards  the  grassy  meads 
and  the  sparkling  rill  of  Moleswich. 

"  There  must  be,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  a  mental,  like  an 
optical,  illusion.  In  the  last,  we  fancy  wx  have  seen  a 
spectre.  If  we  dare  not  face  the  apparition — dare  not  at- 
tempt to  touch  it — run  superstitiously  away  from  it— wdiat 
happens  ?  We  shall  believe  to  our  dying  day  that  it  was  not 
an  illusion — that  it  was  a  spectre— and  so  we  may  be  crazed 
for  life.  But  if  we  manfully  walk  up  to  the  Phanton, 
stretch  our  hands  to  seize  it,  lo  !  it  fades  into  thin  air,  the 
cheat  of  our  eyesight  is  dispelled,  and  we  shall  never  be 
ghost-ridden  again.  So  it  must  be  with  this  mental  illusion 
of  mine.  I  see  an  image  strange  to  my  experience — it 
seems  to  me,  at  that  first  sight,  clothed  with  a  supernatural 
charm  ;  like  an  unreasoning  coward,  I  run  away  from  it.  It 
continues  to  haunt  me  ;  I  cannot  shut  out  its  apparition.  It 
pursues  me  by  day  alike  in  the  haunts  of  men — alike  in  the 
solitudes  of  nature  ;  it  visits  me  by  night  in  my  dreams. 
I  begin  to  say  this  must  be  a  real  visitant  from  another 
world — it  must  be  love — the  love  of  which  I  read  in  the 
Poets,  as  in  the  Poets  I  read  of  witchcraft  and  ghosts. 
Surely  I  must  approach  that  apparition  as  a  philosopher 
like  Sir  David  Brewster  would  approach  the  black  cat 
seated  on  a  hearth-rug,  which  he  tells  us  that  some  lady  of 
his  acquaintance  constantly  saw  till  she  went  into  a  world 
into  which  black  cats  are  not  held  to  be  admitted.  The 
more  I  think  of  it,  the  less  it  appears  to  me  possible  that  I 
can  be  really  in  love  with  a  wild,  half-educated,  anomalous 
creature,  merely  because  the  apparition  of  her  face  haunts 


13* 


298  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

me.     With  perfect  safety,  therefore,   I   can   approach  that 
creature  ;  in   proy3ortion  as   I  see  more  of  her,  the  illusion 
will  vanish.      I  will  go  back  to  Moleswich  manfully." 
Tlius  said  Kenelm  to  liimself,  and  himself  answered  : 
"Go;  for  tliou  canst  not  help  it.     Thinkest  thou  that 
Daces  can  escape  the  net  that  has  meshed  a  Roach  ?     No  : 

'  Come  it  will,  the  day  decreed  by  fate,' 

when  thou  must  succumb  to  the  '  nature  which  will  be  heard.' 
Better  succumb  now,  and  with  a  good  grace,  than  resist  till 
thou  hast  reached  thy  fiftieth  year,  and  then  make  a  rational 
choice  not  for  thy  personal  satisfaction." 

Whereupon  Kenelm  answered  to  himself,  indignantly, 
"Pooh!  thou  flippant.  My  alter  ego,  thou  knowest  not 
Avhat  thou  art  talking  about  !  It  is  not  a  question  of  nature  ; 
it  is  a  question  of  the  supernatural — an  illusion — a 
phanton  ! " 

Thus  Kenelm  and  himself  continued  to  quarrel  with  each 
other  ;  and  the  more  they  quarrelled,  the  nearer  they  ap- 
proached to  the  haunted  spot  in  which  had  been  seen,  and 
fled  from,  the  fatal  apparition  of  first  love. 


BOOK   VI. 


CHAPTER   I. 

Sir  Peter  had  not  heard  from  Kenelm  since  a  letter  in- 
forming him  that  his  son  had  left  town  on  an  excursion, 
which  would  probably  be  short,  though  it  might  last  a  few 
weeks  ;  and  the  good  Baronet  now  resolved  to  go  to  London 
himself,  take  his  chance  of  Kenelm's  return,  and  if  still  ab- 
sent, at  least  learn  from  Mivers  and  others  how  far  that  very- 
eccentric  planet  had  contrived  to  steer  a  regular  course 
amidst  the  fixed  stars  of  the  metropolitan  system.  He  had 
other  reasons  for  his  journey.  He  wished  to  make  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Gordon  Chillingly  before  handing  him  over 
the  ^20,000  which  Kenelm  had  released  in  that  resettlement 
of  estates,  the  necessary  deeds  of  which  the  young  heir  had 
signed  before  quitting  London  for  Moleswich.  Sir  Peter 
wished  still  more  to  see  Cecilia  Travers,  in  whom  Kenelm's 
accounts  of  her  had  inspired  a  very  strong  interest. 

The  day  after  his  arrival  in  town  Sir  Peter  breakfasted 
with  Mivers. 

"  Upon  my  word  you  are  very  comfortable  here,"  said 
Sir  Peter,  glancing  at  the  well-appointed  table  and  round 
the  well-furnished  rooms. 

"  Naturally  so — there  is  no  one  to  prevent  my  being  com- 
fortable.    I  am  not  married  ; — taste  that  omelette." 

"  Some  men  declare  they  never  knew  comfort  till  the}"- 
were  married,  cousin  Mivers." 

"  Some  men  are  reflecting  bodies,  and  catch  a  pallid  gleam 
from  the  comfort  wdiich  a  wnfe  concentres  on  herself.  With 
a  fortune  so  modest  and  secure,  what  comforts,  possessed 
by  me  now,  would  not  a  Mrs.  Chillingly  Mivers  ravish  from 
my  hold  and  appropriate  to  herself!  Instead  of  these 
pleasant  rooms,  where  should  I  be  lodged  ?  In  a  dingy  den 
looking  on  a  backyard,  excluded  from  the  sun  by  day  and 
vocal  with  cats  by  night  ;  while  Mrs.  Mivers  luxuriated  in 


300  KEN  ELM    C  Hn.LINGT.Y. 

two  drawing-rooms  with  southern  aspect  and  perhaps  a  bou- 
doir. My  brougham  would  be  torn  from  my  uses  and  mo- 
nopolized by  '  the  angel  of  my  hearth,'  clouded  in  her  crin- 
oline and  halved  by  her  chignon.  No  !  if  ever  I  marry— a.nd 
I  never  deprive  myself  of  the  civilities  and  needlework  which 
sing'e  ladies  waste  upon  me,  by  saying  I  shall  not  marry — 
it  vvill  be  when  women  have  fully  establisiicd  their  rights  ; 
for  then  men  may  have  a  chance  of  vindicating  their  own. 
Then,  if  there  are  two  drawing-rooms  in  the  house,  I  shall 
take  one,  if  not,  we  will  toss  up  who  shall  have  the  back 
parlor  ;  if  we  keep  a  brougham,  it  wall  be  exclusively  mine 
three  days  in  the  week  ;  if  Mrs.  M.  wants  ^{^200  a  year  for 
her  wardrobe,  she  must  be  contented  with  one,  the  other 
half  will  belong  to  my  personal  decoration  ;  if  I  am  oppressed 
by  proof-sheets  and  printers'  devils,  half  of  the  oppression 
falls  to  her  lot,  while  I  take  my  holiday  on  the  croquet- 
ground  at  Wimbledon.  Yes,  when  the  present  wrongs  of 
women  are  exchanged  for  equality  with  men,  I  will  cheer- 
fully marry  ;  and  to  do  the  thing  generous,  I  will  not  oppose 
Mrs.  M.'s  voting  in  the  vestry  or  for  Parliament.  I  will  give 
her  my  own  votes  with  pleasure." 

"  I  fear,  my  dear  cousin,  that  you  have  infected  Kenelm 
with  your  selfish  ideas  on  the  nuptial  state.  He  does  not 
seem  inclined  to  marry — eh  ? " 

"Not  that  I  know  of." 

"What  sort  of  a  girl  is  Cecilia  Travers  ?" 

"One  of  those  superior  girls  who  are  not  likely  to  tower 
into  that  terrible  giantess  called  '  a  superior  woman.'  A 
handsome,  well-educated,  sensible  young  lady.  Not  spoilt 
by  being  an  heiress— in  fine,  just  the  sort  of  a  girl  whom  you 
could  desire  to  fix  on  for  a  daughter-in-law." 

"  And  you  don't  think  Kenelm  has  a  fancy  for  her  ?  " 

"  Honestly  speaking — I  do  not." 

"Any  counter-attraction?  There  are  some  things  in 
which  sons  do  not  confide  in  their  fathers.  You  have  never 
heard  that  Kenelm  has  been  a  little  wild  ? " 

"Wild  he  is,  as  the  noble  savage  who  ran  in  woods," 
said  cousin  Mivers. 

"You  frighten  me!" 

"  Before  the  noble  savage  ran  across  the  squaws,  and  was 
wise  enough  to  run  away  from  them.  Kenelm  has  run  away 
now,  somewhere." 

"Yes,  he  does  not  tell  me  where,  nor  do  they  know  at 
his  lodgings.     A  heap  of  notes  on  his  table,  and  no  directions 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  301 

where  they  arc  to  be  forwarded.  On  the  whole,  however, 
he  has  held  his  own  in  London  society — eh  ?  " 

"Certainly!  he  has  been  more  courted  than  most  young 
men,  and  perhaps  more  talked  of.  Oddities  generally 
are." 

"You  own  he  has  talents  above  the  average?  Do  you 
not  think  he  will  make  a  figure  in  the  world  some  day,  and 
discharge  that  debt  to  the  literary  stores  or  the  political  in- 
terests of  his  country  which,  alas,  I  and  my  predecessors, 
the  other  Sir  Peters,  failed  to  do,  and  for  which  I  hailed  his 
birth  and  gave  him  the  name  of  Kenelm  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  word,"  answered  Mivers — who  had  now 
finished  his  breakfast,  retreated  to  an  easy-chair,  and  taken 
from  the  chimney-piece  one  of  his  famous  trabucos, — "  upon 
my  word  I  can't  guess  ;  if  some  great  reverse  of  fortune  be- 
fell him,  and  he  had  to  work  for  his  livelihood,  or  if  some 
other  direful  calamity  gave  a  shock  to  his  nervous  system 
and  jolted  it  into  a  fussy  fidgety  direction,  I  daresay  he  might 
make  a  splash  in  that  current  of  life  which  bears  men  on  to 
the  grave.  But  you  see  he  wants,  as  he  himself  very  trvdy 
says,  the  two  stimulants  to  definite  action— poverty  and  van- 
ity." 

"  Surely  there  have  been  great  men  who  were  neitlier 
poor  nor  vain  ?" 

"  I  doubt  it.  But  vanity  is  a  rul>ng  motive  that  takes 
many  forms  and  many  aliases — call  it  ambition,  call  it  love 
of  fame,  still  its  substance  is  the  same — the  desire  of  applause 
carried  into  fussiness  of  action." 

"There  may  be  the  desire  for  abstract  truth  without  care 
fur  applause." 

"  Certainly.  A  philosopher  on  a  desert  island  may  amuse 
himself  by  meditating  on  the  distinction  between  light  and 
heat.  But  if  on  returning  to  the  world  he  publish  the  result 
of  his  meditations,  vanity  steps  in  and  desires  to  be  ap- 
plauded." 

"  Nonsense,  cousin  Mivers  !  he  may  rather  desire  to  be 
of  use  and  benefit  to  mankind.  You  don't  deny  that  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  philanthropy  ?  " 

"  I  don't  deny  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  humbug. 
And  whenever  I  meet  a  man  who  has  the  face  to  tell  me 
that  he  is  taking  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and  putting  himself 
very  much  out  of  his  wav,  for  a  philanthropical  object, 
without  the  slightest  idea  of  reward  either  in  praise  or 
pence,  I  know  that  I  have  a  humbug  before  me — a  danger- 


302  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

ous  humbug— a  swindling  liumbug  —  a  fellow  with  his 
pocket  full  of  villanous  prospectuses  and  appeals  to  sub- 
scribers." 

"  Pooh,  pooh  !  leave  off  that  affectation  of  cynicism  ;  you 
are  not  a  bad-hearted  fellow — you  must  love  mankind — you 
must  have  an  interest  in  the  welfare  of  posterity." 

"Love  mankind?  Interest  in  posterity?  Bless  my  soul, 
cousin  Peter,  I  hope  you  have  no  prospectuses  \\\  your  pock- 
ets ;  no  schemes  for  draining  the  Pontine  Marshes  out  of 
pure  love  to  mankind  ;  no  propositions  for  doubling  the  in- 
come tax,  as  a  reserve  fund  for  posterity  should  our  coal- 
fields fail  three  thousand  years  hence.  Love  of  mankind  ! 
Rubbish  !     This  comes  of  living  in  the  country." 

"  But  you  do  love  the  human  race — you  do  care  for  the 
generations  that  are  to  come." 

"  I  !  Not  a  bit  of  it.  On  the  contrary,  I  rather  dislike 
the  human  race,  taking  it  altogether,  and  including  the 
Australian  bushmen  ;  and  I  don't  believe  any  man  who  tells 
me  that  he  would  grieve  half  as  much  if  ten  millions  of 
human  beings  were  swallowed  up  by  an  earthquake  at  a 
considerable  distance  from  his  own  residence,  say  Abyssinia, 
as  he  would  for  a  rise  in  his  butcher's  bills.  As  to  pos- 
terity, who  would  consent  to  have  a  month's  fit  of  the  gout 
or  tic-douloureux  in  order  that  in  the  fourth  thousand  year, 
A.D.,  posterity  should  enjoy  a  perfect  system  of  sewage  ?  " 

Sir  Peter,  who  had  recently  been  afflicted  by  a  very 
sharp  attack  of  neuralgia,  shook  his  head,  but  was  too  con- 
scientious not  to  keep  silence. 

"To  turn  the  subject,"  said  Mivers,  relighting  the  cigar 
which  he  had  laid  aside  wdiile  delivering  himself  of  his  amia- 
ble opinions,  "  I  think  you  would  do  well,  while  in  town, 
to  call  on  your  old  friend  Travcrs  and  be  introduced  to 
Cecilia.  If  you  think  as  favorably  of  her  as  I  do,  why  not 
ask  father  and  daughter  to  pay  you  a  visit  at  Exmundham  ? 
Girls  think  more  about  a  man  when  they  see  the  place 
which  he  can  offer  to  them  as  a  home,  and  Exmundham  is 
an  attractive  place  to  girls — picturesque  and  romantic." 

"A  very  good  idea,"  cried  Sir  Peter,  heartily.  "And  I 
want  also  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Chillingly  Gordon. 
Give  me  his  address." 

"  Here  is  his  card  on  the  chimney-piece  :  take  it  ;  you 
will  always  find  him  at  home  till  two  o'clock.  He  is  too 
sensible  to  waste  the  forenoon  in  riding  out  in  Hyde  Paik 
with  young  ladies." 


KENELAt   CHILLINGLY.  303 

"Give  me  your  frank  opinion  of  that  young  kinsman. 
Kenelm  tells  me  that  he  is  clever  and  ambitious." 

"  Kenelm  speaks  truly.  He  is  not  a  man  who  will  talk 
stuff  about  love  of  mankind  and  posterity.  He  is  of  our 
day,  with  large  keen  wide-awake  eyes,  that  look  only  on 
such  portions  of  mankind  as  can  be  of  use  to  him— and  do 
not  spoil  their  sight  by  poring  through  cracked  telescopes, 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  posterity.  Gordon  is  a  man  to  be  a 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  perhaps  a  Prime  Minister." 

*'  And  old  Gordon's  son  is  cleverer  than  my  boy — than 
the  namesake  of  Kenelm  Digby  !  "  and  Sir  Peter  sighed. 

"  I  did  not  say  that.  I  am  cleverer  than  Chillingly  Gor- 
don, and  the  proof  of  it  is  that  I  am  too  clever  to  wish  to 
be  Prime  Minister — very  disagreeable  office— hard  work- 
irregular  hours  for  meals — much  abuse  and  confirmed  dys- 
pepsia." 

Sir  Peter  went  away  rather  down-hearted.  He  found 
Chillingly  Gordon  at  home  in  a  lodging  in  Jermyn  Street. 
Though  prepossessed  against  him  by  all  he  had  heard,  Sir 
Peter  was  soon  propitiated  in  his  favor.  Gordon  had  a 
frank  man-of-the-world  way  with  him,  and  much  too  fine  a 
tact  to  utter  any  sentiments  likely  to  displease  an  old-fash- 
ioned country  gentleman,  and  a  relation  who  might  possibly 
be  of  service  in  his  career.  He  touched  briefly,  and  with 
apparent  feeling,  on  the  unhappy  litigation  commenced  by 
his  father  ;  spoke  with  affectionate  praise  of  Kenelm  ;  and 
with  a  discriminating  good-nature  of  Mivers,  as  a  man  who, 
to  parody  the  epigram  on  Charles  H., 

"Never  says  a  kindly  thing, 

And  never  does  a  harsh  one." 

Then  he  drew  Sir  Peter  on  to  talk  of  the  country  and 
agricultural  prospects  ;  learned  that  among  his  objects  in 
visiting  town  was  the  wish  to  inspect  a  patented  hvdraulic 
ram  that  might  be  very  useful  for  his  farmyard,  which  was 
ill  supplied  with  water  ;  startled  the  Baronet  by  evincing 
some  practical  knowledge  of  mechanics  ;  insisted  on  accom- 
panying him  to  the  city  to  inspect  the  ram  ;  did  so,  and  ap- 
proved the  purchase  ;  took  him  next  to  see  a  new  American 
reaping-machine,  and  did  not  part  with  him  till  he  had  ob- 
tained Sir  Peter's  promise  to  dine  with  him  at  the  Garrick, 
— an  invitation  peculiarly  agreeable  to  Sir  Peter,  who  had  a 
natural  curiosity  to  see   some  of  the  more  recently   distin- 


304  KENELM    CHILLINGLY. 

guished  frequenters  of  that  social  club.  As,  on  quitting 
Gordon,  Sir  Peter  took  his  way  to  the  hoMse  of  Leopold 
Travers,  his  thoughts  turned  with  much  kindliness  towards 
his  young  kinsman.  "  Mivers  and  Kenelm,"  quoth  he  to 
himself,  "gave  me  an  unfavorable  impression  of  this  lad  ; 
they  represent  him  as  worldly,  self-seeking,  and  so  forth. 
But  Mivers  takes  such  cynical  views  of  character,  and  Ken- 
elm  is  too  eccentric  to  judge  faiily  of  a  sensible  man  of  the 
Avorld.  At  all  events,  it  is  not  like  an  egotist  to  put  himself 
out  of  his  way  to  be  so  civil  to  an  old  fellow  like  me.  A 
young  man  about  towm  must  have  pleasanter  modes  of  pass- 
ing his  day  than  inspecting  hydraulic  rams  and  reaping- 
machines.  Clever  they  allow  him  to  be.  Yes,  decidedly 
clever — and  not  offensively  clever — practical." 

Sir  Peter  found  Travers  in  the  dining-room  witli  his 
daughter,  Mrs.  Campion,  and  Lady  Glenalvon.  Travers 
was  one  of  those  men,  rare  in  middle  age,  who  are  more 
often  to  be  found  in  their  drawing-room  than  in  their  private 
study;  he  was  fond  of  female  society  ;  and  perhaps  it  was 
this  predilection  which  contributed  to  preserve  in  him  the 
charm  of  good  breeding  and  winning  manners.  The  two 
men  had  not  met  for  many  years  ;  not,  indeed,  since  Travers 
was  at  the  zenith  of  his  career  of  fashion,  and  Sir  Peter  was 
one  of  those  pleasant  dilettanti  and  half-humoristic  conversa- 
tionalists who  become  popular  and  courted  diners-out. 

Sir  Peter  had  originally  been  a  moderate  Whig  because 
his  father  had  been  one  before  him,  but  he  left  the  Whig 
party  with  the  Duke  of  Richmond,  Mr.  Stanley  (afterwards 
Lord  Derby),  and  others,  when  it  seemed  to  him  that  that 
party  had  ceased  to  be  moderate. 

Leopold  Travers  had,  as  a  youth  in  the  Guards,  been  a 
high  Tory,  but,  siding  with  Sir  Robert  Peel  on  the  repeal 
of  the  Corn  Laws,  remained  witli  the  Peelites  after  the  bulk 
of  the  Tory  party  had  renounced  the  guidance  of  their 
former  chief,  and  now  went  with  these  Peelites  in  whatever 
direction  the  progress  of  the  age  might  impel  their  strides 
in  advance  of  Whigs  and  in  defiance  of  Tories. 

However,  it  is  not  the  politics  of  these  two  gentlemen 
that  are  in  question  now.  As  1  have  just  said,  they  had  not 
met  for  many  years.  Travers  was  very  little  changed.  Sir 
Peter  recognized  him  at  a  glance  ;  Sir  Peter  was  much 
changf'd,  and  Travers  hesitated  before,  on  hearing  his  name 
ann(junced,  he  felt  quite  sure  that  it  was  the  right  Sir  Peter 
towards  whom  he  advanced  and  to  whom  he  extended  his 


KENELM   CHlL^LmCLY.  30? 

cordial  hand.  Travers  preserved  the  coloi  of  his  nair  and 
the  neat  proportions  of  his  figure,  and  was  as  scrupulously 
well  dressed  as  in  his  dandy  days.  Sir  Peter,  originally  very 
thin  and  with  fair  locks  and  dreamy  blue  eyes,  had  now  be- 
come rather  portly,  at  least  towards  the  middle  of  him— 
very  gray — had  long  ago  taken  to  spectacles — his  dress,  too, 
was  very  old-fashioned,  and  made  by  a  country  tailor.  He 
looked  quite  as  much  a  gentleman  as  Travers  did  ;  quite 
])erhaps  as  healthy,  allowing  for  difference  of  years  ;  quite 
as  likely  to  last  his  time.  But  between  them  was  the  differ- 
ence of  the  nervous  temperament  and  the  lymphatic.  Trav- 
ers, with  less  brain  than  Sir  Peter,  had  kept  his  brain  con- 
stantly active;  Sir  Peter  had  allowed  his  brain  to  dawdle 
over  old  books  and  lazy  delight  in  letting  the  hours  slip  by. 
Therefore  Travers  still  looked  young— alert — up  to  his  day, 
up  to  anything  ;  while  Sir  Peter,  entering  that  drawing- 
room,  seemed  a  sort  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  who  had  slept 
through  the  past  generation  and  looked  on  the  present  with 
eyes  yet  drowsy.  Still,  in  those  rare  moments  when  he  was 
thoroughly  roused  up,  there  would  have  been  found  in  Sir 
Peter  a  glow  of  heart,  nay,  even  a  vigor  of  thought,  much 
more  expressive  than  the  constitutional  alertness  that  charac 
terized  Leopold  Travers,  of  the  attributes  we  most  love  and 
admire  in  the  young. 

"  My  dear  Sir  Peter,  is  it  you  ?  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you 
again,"  said  Travers.  "  What  an  age  since  we  met,  and  hoW 
condescendingly  kind  you  were  then  to  me  ;  silly  fop  that  I 
was  !  But  bygones  are  bygones  ;  come  to  the  present.  Let 
me  introduce  to  you,  first,  my  valued  friend,  Mrs.  Campion, 
whose  distinguished  husband  you  remember.  Ah,  what 
pleasant  meetings  we  had  at  his  house  !  And  next,  that 
young  lady  of  whom  she  takes  motherly  charge  ;  my  daugh- 
ter Cecilia.  Lady  Glenalvon,  your  wife's  friend,  of  course 
needs  no  introduction  :  time  stands  still  with  her." 

Sir  Peter  lowered  his  spectacles,  which  in  reality  he  only 
wanted  for  books  in  small  print,  and  gazed  attentively  on 
the  three  ladies— at  each  gaze  a  bow.  But  while  his  eyes 
were  still  lingeringly  fixed  on  Cecilia,  Lady  Glenalvon  ad- 
vanced, naturally,  ni  right  of  rank  and  the  claim  of  old  ac- 
quaintance, the  first  of  the  three  to  greet  him. 

"  Alas,  my  dear  Sir  Peter  !  time  does  not  stand  still  for 
any  of  us  ;  but  what  matter,  if  it  leaves  pleasant  footprints  ? 
When  I  see  you  again,  my  youth  comes  before  me.  My 
early  friend,   Caroline    Brotherton,  now    Lady   Chillingly ; 


3o6  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

our  girlish  walks  with  each  other  ;  wreaths  and  ball-dresses 
the  practical  topic  :  prospective  husbands,  the  dream  at  a 
distance.     Come  and  sit  here  :  tell  me  aU  about  Caroline." 

Sir  Peter,  who  had  little  to  say  about  Caroline  that 
could  possibly  interest  anybody  but  himself,  nevertheless 
took  his  seat  beside  Lady  Glenalvon,  and,  as  in  duty  bound, 
made  the  most  flattering  account  of  his  She  Baronet  which 
experience  or  invention  would  allow.  All  the  while,  liow- 
ever,  his  thoughts  were  on  Kenehn,  and  his  eyes  on  Cecilia. 

Cecilia  resumes  some  mysterious  piece  of  lady's  work — 
no  matter  what — perhaps  embroidery  for  a  music-stool, 
perhaps  a  pair  of  slippers  for  her  father  (which,  being  rather 
vain  of  his  feet  and  knowing  they  look  best  in  plain  morocco, 
he  will  certainly  never  wear).  Cecilia  appears  absorbed  in 
her  occupation  ;  but  her  eyes  and  her  thoughts  arc  on  Sir 
Peter.  Why,  my  lady  reader  may  guess.  And  oh,  so  flatter- 
ingly, so  lovingly  fixed  !  She  thinks  he  has  a  most  charm- 
ing, intelligent,  benignant  countenance.  She  admires  even 
his  old-fashioned  frock-coat,  high  neckcloth,  and  strapped 
trousers.  She  venerates  his  gray  hairs,  pure  of  dye.  She 
tries  to  find  a  close  resemblance  between  that  fair,  blue- 
eyed,  plumpish  elderly  gentleman  and  the  lean,  dark-eyed, 
saturnine,  lofty  Kenelm  ;  she  detects  the  likeness  which 
nobody  else  would.  She  begins  to  love  Sir  Peter,  though 
he  has  not  said  a  word  to  her. 

Ah  !  on  this,  a  word  for  what  it  is  worth  to  you,  my 
young  readers.  You,  sir,  wishing  to  marry  a  girl  who  is  to 
be  deeply,  lastingly  in  love  with  you,  and  a  thoroughly  good 
Avife  practically,  consider  well  how  she  takes  to  your  par- 
ents— how  she  attaches  to  them  an  inexpressible  sentiment, 
a  disinterested  reverence — even  should  you  but  dimly  re- 
cognize the  sentiment,  or  feel  the  reverence,  how  if  between 
you  and  your  parents  some  little  cause  of  coldness  arise, 
she  will  charm  you  back  to  honor  your  father  and  your 
mother,  even  though  they  are  not  particularly  genial  to  her 
—  well,  if  you  win  tliat  sort  of  girl  as  your  wife,  think  you 
have  got  a  treasure.  You  have  won  a  woman  to  whom 
Heaven  has  given  the  two  best  attributes — intense  feeling 
of  love,  intense  sense  of  duty.  What,  my  dear  lady  reader, 
I  say  of  one  sex,  I  say  of  another,  though  in  a  less  degree  ; 
because  a  girl  who  marries  becomes  of  her  husband's  family, 
and  the  man  does  not  become  of  his  wife's.  Still  I  distrust 
the  depth  of  any  man's  love  to  a  woman,  if  he  does  not  feel 
a  great  degree  of  tenderness  (and  forbearance  where  differ- 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  307 

ences  arise)  for  her  parents.  But  the  wife  must  not  so  put 
them  in  the  foreground  as  to  make  the  husband  think  he  is 
cast  into  the  cold  of  the  shadow.  Pardon  tliis  intolerable 
length  of  digression,  dear  reader — it  is  not  altogether  a  di- 
gression, for  it  belongs  to  my  tale  that  you  should  clearly 
understand  the  sort  of  girl  that  is  personified  in  Cecilia 
Travers. 

"What  has  become  of  Kenelm  ?"  asks  Lady  Glenalvon. 

"  I  wish  I  coxdd  tell  you,"  answers  Sir  Peter.  "  He 
wrote  me  word  that  he  w%as  going  forth  on  rambles  into 
'  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new,'  perhaps  for  some  weeks. 
I  have  not  had  a  word  from  him  since." 

"You  make  me  uneasy,"  said  Lady  Glenalvon.  "  I  hope 
nothing  can  have  happened  to  him — he  cannot  have  fallen 
ill." 

Cecilia  stops  her  work,  and  looks  up  wistfully. 

"  Make  your  mind  easy,"  said  Travers  with  a  laugh  ;  "  I 
am  in  his  secret.  He  has  challenged  the  champion  of  Eng- 
land, and  gone  into  the  country  to  train." 

"Very  likely,"  said  Sir  Peter,  quietly  ;  "  I  should  not  be 
in  the  least  surprised  :  should  you,  Miss  Travers  ?" 

"I  think  it  more  probable  that  Mr.  Chillingly  is  do- 
ing some  kindness  to  others  which  he  wishes  to  keep  con- 
cealed." 

Sir  Peter  was  pleased  with  this  reply,  and  drew  his  chair 
nearer  to  Cecilia's.  Lady  Glenalvon,  charmed  to  bring 
those  two  together,  soon  rose  and  took  leave. 

Sir  Peter  remained  nearly  an  hour,  talking  chiefly  with 
Cecilia,  who  won  her  w^ay  into  his  heart  with  extraordinary 
ease  ;  and  he  did  not  quit  the  house  till  he  had  engaged  her 
father,  Mrs.  Campion,  and  herself  to  pay  him  a  week's  visit 
at  Exmundham,  towards  the  end  of  the  London  season, 
which  was  fast  approaching. 

Having  obtained  this  promise,  Sir  Peter  went  away,  and 
ten  minutes  after  Mr.  Gordon  Chillingly  entered  the  draw- 
ing-room. He  had  already  established  a  visiting  acquain- 
tance with  the  Traverses.  Travers  had  taken  a  liking  to 
him.  Mrs.  Campion  found  him  an  extremely  well-informed, 
unaffected  young  man,  very  superior  to  young  men  in  gen- 
eral.    Cecilia  was  cordially  polite  to  Kenelm's  cousin. 

Altogether,  that  was  a  very  happy  day  for  Sir  Peter. 
He  enjoyed  greatly  his  dinner  at  the  Garrick,  where  he  met 
some  old  acquaintances  and  was  presented  to  some  new 
•'celebrities."     He  observed  that  Gordon   btood   well  with 


3oS  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

these  eminent  persons.  Though  as  yet  undistinguished 
himself,  they  treated  him  with  a  certain  respect,  as  well  as 
with  evident  liking.  The  most  eminent  of  them,  at  least  the 
one  with  the  most  solidly-established  reputation,  said  in  Sir 
Peter's  ear,  ''  You  may  be  proud  of  your  nephew  Gor- 
don !  " 

"  He  is  not  my  nephew,  only  the  son  of  a  very  distant 
cousin." 

'' Sorry  for  that.  Bat  he  will  shed  lustre  on  kinsfolk, 
however  distant.  Clever  fellow,  yet  popular  ;  rare  combi- 
nation— sure  to  rise." 

Sir  Peter  suppressed  a  gulp  in  the  throat.  "Ah,  if  some 
one  as  eminent  had  spoken  thus  of  Kenelm  !  " 

But  he  was  too  generous  to  allow  that  half-envious  sen- 
tim>ent  to  last  more  than  a  moment.  Why  should  he  not  be 
proud  of  any  member  of  the  family  who  could  irradiate  the 
antique  obscurity  of  the  Chillingly  race  ?  And  how  agree- 
able this  clever  young  man  made  himself  to  Sir  Peter  ! 

The  next  day  Gordon  insisted  on  accompanying  him 
to  see  the  latest  acquisitions  in  the  British  Museum,  and 
various  other  exhibitions,  and  went  at  night  to  the  Princp 
of  Wales's  Theatre,  where  Sir  Peter  was  infinitely  delighted 
with  an  admirable  little  comedy  by  Mr.  Robertson,  admir- 
ably placed  on  the  stage  by  Marie  Wilton.  The  day  after, 
when  Gordon  called  on  him  at  his  hotel,  he  cleared  his 
throat,  and  thus  plunged  at  once  into  the  communication 
he  had  hitherto  delayed. 

"  Gordon,  my  boy,  I  owe  you  a  debt,  and  I  am  now, 
thanks  to  Kenelm,  able  to  pay  it." 

Gordon  gave  a  little  start  of  surprise,  but  remained 
silent. 

"  I  told  your  father,  shortly  after  Kenelm  was  born,  that 
I  meant  to  give  up  my  London  house  and  lay  by  ^looo  a 
year  for  you,  in  compensation  for  your  chance  of  succeed- 
ing to  Exmundham  should  I  have  died  childless.  Well, 
your  father  did  not  seem  to  think  much  of  that  promise,  and 
went  to  law  with  me  about  certain  unquestionable  rights  of 
mine.  How  so  clever  a  man  could  have  made  sucli  a  mis- 
take, would  puzzle  me,  if  I  did  n(jt  remember  that  he  had  a 
quarrelsome  temper.  Temper  is  a  thing  that  often  domi- 
nates cleverness — an  uncontrollable  thing  ;  and  allowances 
must  be  made  for  it.  Not  being  of  a  quarrelsome  temper 
myself  (the  Chillinglys  are  a  placid  race),  I  did  not  make 
the  allowance  for  your  father's  differing,  and   (for  a   Chil- 


KENELM    CHILLINGLY.  309 

lingly)  abnormal,  constitution.  The  language  and  the  tone 
of  his  letter  respecting  it  nettled  me.  I  did  not  see  why, 
thus  treated,  I  should  pinch  myself  to  lay  by  a  thousand  a 
year.  Facilities  for  buying  a  property  most  desirable  for 
the  possessor  of  Exmundham  presented  themselves.  I 
bought  it  with  borrowed  money,  and,  though  I  gave  up  the 
house  in  London,  I  did  not  lay  by  the  thousand  a  year." 

"  My  dear  Sir  Peter,  I  have  always  regretted  that  my 
poor  father  was  misled — perhaps  out  of  too  paternal  a  care 
for  my  supposed  interests — into  that  unhappy  and  fruitless 
litigation,  after  which  no  one  could  doubt  that  any  gener- 
ous intentions  on  your  part  would  be  finally  abandoned.  It 
has  been  a  grateful  surprise  to  me  that  I  have  been  so  kindly 
and  cordially  received  into  the  family  by  Kenelm  and  your- 
self. Pray  oblige  me  by  dropping  all  reference  to  pecun- 
iary matters  :  the  idea  of  compensation  to  a  very  distant 
relative  for  the  loss  of  expectations  he  had  no  right  to  form, 
is  too  absurd,  for  me  at  least,  ever  to  entertain." 

"  But  I  am  absurd  enough  to  entertain  it — though  you 
express  yourself  in  a  very  high-minded  way.  To  come  to 
the  point,  Kenelm  is  of  age,  and  we  have  cut  off  the  entail. 
The  estate  of  course  remains  absolutely  with  Kenelm  to  dis- 
pose of,  as  it  did  before,  and  we  must  take  it  for  granted 
tliat  he  will  marry  ;  at  all  events  he  cannot  fall  into  your 
poor  father's  error  ;  but  whatever  Kenelm  hereafter  does 
with  his  property,  it  is  nothing  to  you,  and  is  not  to  be 
counted  upon.  Even  the  title  dies  with  Kenelm  if  he  has 
no  son.  On  resettling  the  estate,  however,  sums  of  money 
have  been  released  which,  as  I  stated  before,  enable  me  to 
discharge  the  debt  which,  Kenelm  heartily  agrees  with  me, 
is  due  to  you.  ^20,000  are  now  lying  at  my  bankers'  to  be 
transferred  to  yours  ;  meanwhile,  if  you  will  call  on  my 
solicitor,  Mr.  Vining,  Lincoln's-inn,  you  can  see  the  new 
deed,  and  give  to  him  yoiu"  receipt  for  the  ^20,000  for 
which  he  holds  my  cheque.  Stop — stop — stop — I  will  not 
hear  a  word — no  thanks,  they  are  not  due." 

Here  Gordon,  who  had  during  this  speech  uttered 
various  brief  exclamations,  which  Sir  Peter  did  not  heed, 
caught  hold  of  his  kinsman's  hand,  and,  despite  of  all  strug- 
gles, pressed  his  lips  on  it.  "  I  must  thank  you,  I  must 
give  some  vent  to  my  emotions,"  cried  Gordon.  "  This 
sum,  great  in  itself,  is  far  more  to  me  than  you  can  imagine 
— it  opens  my  career — it  assures  my  future." 

"  So  Kenelm  tells  me  ;  he  said  that  sum  would  be  more 


3IO  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

use  to  you  now   than  ten  times  the   amount  twenty  years 
hence." 

"  So  it  will — it  will.  And  Kenelm  consents  to  this  sacri- 
fice?" 

"  Consents — urges  it  !  " 

Gordon  turned  away  his  face,  and  Sir  Peter  resumed  : 
"You  want  to  get  into  Parliament;  very  natural  ambition 
for  a  clever  young  fellow.  I  don't  presume  to  dictate  poli- 
tics to  you.  I  hear  you  are  what  is  called  a  liberal  ;  a  man 
may  be  a  liberal,  I  suppose,  without  being  a  Jacobin." 

'*  I  hope  so,  indeed.  For  my  part,  I  am  anything  but  a 
violent  man." 

"  V^iolent,  no  !  Who  ever  heard  of  a  violent  Chillingly  ? 
But  I  was  reading  in  tlie  newspaper  to-day  a  speech  ad- 
dressed to  some  populous  audience,  in  which  the  orator  was 
fpr  dividing  all  the  land  and  all  the  capital  belonging  to 
other  people  among  the  working  class,  calmly  and  quielly, 
without  any  violence,  and  deprecating  violence  ;  but  saying, 
perhaps  very  truly,  that  the  people  to  be  robbed  might 
not  like  it,  and  might  offer  violence  ;  in  which  case  Avoe  be- 
tide them — it  was  they  who  would  be  guilty  of  violence — 
and  they  must  take  the  consequences  if  they  resisted  tlie 
reasonable  propositions  of  himself  and  his  friends  !  That, 
I  suppose,  is  among  tlie  new  ideas  with  which  Kenelm  is 
more  familiar  than  I  am.  Do  you  entertain  those  new 
ideas  ? " 

"  Certainly  not — I  despise  the  fools  who  do." 

"  And  you  will  not  abet  revolutionary  measures  if  you 
get  into  Parliament  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Sir  Peter,  I  fear  you  have  heard  very  false 
reports  of  my  opinicnis  if  you  put  such  questions.  Listen," 
and  therewith  (iordon  launched  into  dissertations  very 
clever,  very  subtle,  which  committed  him  to  nothing,  be- 
yond the  wisdom  of  guiding  popular  opinion  into  right 
directions  ;  what  might  be  right  directions  he  did  not  define, 
he  left  Sir  Peter  to  guess  them.  Sir  Peter  did  guess  them, 
as  Gordon  meant  he  should,  to  be  the  directions  which  he. 
Sir  Peter,  thought  right  ;  and  he  was  satisfied. 

That  subject  disposed  of,  Gordon  said,  with  much  appar- 
ent feeling,  "  May  I  ask  you  to  complete  the  favors  you 
have  lavished  on  me  ?  I  have  never  seen  Exmundham, 
and  the  home  of  tlie  race  from  which  I  sprang  has  a  deep 
interest  for  me.  Will  you  allow  me  to  spend  a  few  days 
with  you,  and  under  the  shade  of  your  own  trees  take  les- 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  311 

sons  in  political  science  from  one  who  has  evidently  reflect- 
ed on  it  profoundly?" 

"  Profoundly — no — a  little — a  little,  as  a  mere  bystand- 
er," said  Sir  Peter,  modestly,  but  much  flattered.  "  Come, 
my  dear  boy,  by  all  means  ;  you  will  have  a  hearty  wel- 
come. By-the-by,  Travers  and  his  handsome  daughter 
promised  to  visit  me  in  about  a  fortnight  :  why  not  come 
at  the  same  time  ?  " 

A  sudden  flash  lit  up  the  young  man's  countenance.  "  I 
shall  be  so  delighted,"  he  cried.  "  I  am  but  slightly  ac- 
quainted with  Mr.  Travers,  but  I  like  him  much,  and  Mrs. 
Campion  is  so  well  informed." 

"And  what  say  you  to  the  girl  ? " 

"The girl.  Miss  Travers.  Oh,  she  is  very  well  in  her  way. 
But  I  don't  talk  with  yoimg  ladies  more  than  I  can  help." 

"Then  you  are  like  your  cousin  Kenelm?" 

"I  wish  I  were  like  him  in  other  things." 

"No,  one  such  oddity  in  a  family  is  quite  enough.  But 
though  I  would  not  have  you  change  to  a  Kenelm,  I  would 
not  change  Kenelm  for  the  most  perfect  model  of  a  son  that 
the  world  can  exhibit."  Delivering  himself  of  this  burst  of 
parental  fondness.  Sir  Peter  shook  hands  with  Gordon,  and 
walked  off  to  Mivers,  who  was  to  give  him  limcheon  and 
then  accompany  him  to  the  station.  Sir  Peter  was  to  return 
to  Exmundham  by  the  afternoon  express. 

Left  alone,  Gordon  indulged  in  one  of  those  luxurious 
guesses  into  the  future  which  form  the  happiest  moments  in 
youth,  when  so  ambitious  as  his.  The  sum  Sir  Peter  placed 
at  his  disposal  would  insure  his  entrance  into  Parliament. 
He  counted  with  confidence  on  early  successes  there.  He 
extended  the  scope  of  his  views.  With  such  successes  he 
might  calculate  with  certainty  on  a  brilliant  marriage,  aug- 
menting his  fortune,  and  confirming  his  position.  He  had 
previously  fixed  his  thoughts  on  Cecilia  Travers — I  will  do 
him  the  justice  to  say  not  from  mercenary  motives  alone,  but 
not  certainly  with  the  impetuous  ardor  of  youthful  love.  He 
thought  her  exactly  fitted  to  be  the  wife  of  an  eminent  public 
man,  in  person,  acquirement,  dignified  yet  popular  manners. 
He  esteemed  her,  he  liked  her,  and  then  her  fortune  would 
add  solidity  to  his  position.  In  fact,  he  had  that  sort  of 
rational  attachment  to  Cecilia  which  wise  men,  like  Lord 
Bacon  and  Montaigne,  would  command  to  another  wise  man 
seeking  a  wife.  What  opportunities  of  awaking  in  herself  a 
similar,  perhaps  a  warmer,  attachment  the  visit  to  Exmund- 


312  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

ham  would  afford  !  He  had  learned  when  he  had  called  on 
the  Traverses  that  they  were  going  thitiier,  and  hence  that 
burst  of  family  sentiment  which  had  procured  the  invitation 
to  himself. 

But  he  must  be  cautious ;  he  must  not  prematurely 
awaken  Travers's  suspicions.  He  was  not  as  yet  a  match 
that  the  squire  could  approve  of  for  his  heiress.  And 
though  he  was  ignorant  of  Sir  Peter's  designs  on  that  young 
lady,  he  was  much  too  prudent  to  confide  his  own  to  a  kins- 
man of  whose  discretion  he  had  strong  misgivings.  It  was 
enough  for  him  at  present  that  way  was  opened  for  his  own 
resolute  energies.  And  cheerfidly,  though  musingly,  he 
weighed  its  obstacles,  and  divined  its  goal,  as  he  paced  his 
floor  with  bended  head  and  restless  strides,  now  quick,  now 
slow. 

Sir  Peter,  in  the  meanwhile,  found  a  very  good  luncheon 
prepared  for  him  at  Mivers's  rooms,  which  he  had  all  to  him- 
self, for  his  host  never  "spoilt  his  dinner  and  insulted  his 
breakfast"  by  that  intermediate  meal.  He  remained  at  his 
desk  writing  brief  notes  of  business  or  of  pleasure,  while  Sir 
Peter  did  justice  to  lamb  cutlets  and  grilled  chicken.  But 
he  looked  up  from  his  task,  with  raised  eyebrows,  when  Sir 
Peter,  after  a  somewhat  discursive  account  of  his  visit  to  the 
Traverses,  his  admiration  of  Cecilia,  and  the  adroitness  with 
Avhich,  acting  on  his  cousin's  hint,  he  had  engaged  the  family 
to  spend  a  few  days  at  Exmundham,  added,  "  And,  by-the-by, 
I  have  asked  young  Gordon  to  meet  them." 

"  To  meet  them  ;  meet  Mr.  and  Miss  Travers  !  you  have  ? 
I  thought  you  wished  Kenelm  to  marry  Cecilia.  I  w;is 
mistaken,  you  meant  Gordon  !  " 

"Gordon!"  exclaimed  Sir  Peter,  dropping  his  knife  and 
fork.  "  Nonsense  !  you  don't  suppose  that  oNIiss  Travers  pre- 
fers him  to  Kenelm,  or  that  he  has  the  presumption  to  fancy 
that  her  father  would  sanction  his  addresses." 

"I  indulge  in  no  suppositions  of  the  sort.  I  content 
myself  with  thinking  that  Gordon  is  clever,  insinuating, 
young;  and  it  is  a  very  good  chance  of  bettering  himself 
that  you  have  thrown  in  his  wav.  However,  it  is  no  affair 
of  mine  ;  and  thou<rh  on  the  wlujle  I  like  Kenelm  better  than 
Gordon,  still  I  like  Gordon  very  well,  and  I  have  an  interest 
in  following  his  career  which  I  can't  say  I  have  in  conjectur- 
ing what  may  be  Kenelm's — more  likely  no  career  at  all." 

"Mivers,  you  delight  in  provoking  me  ;  you  do  say  such 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  313 

uncomfortable  things.  But,  in  the  first  place,  Gordon  spoke 
rather  slightingly  of  Miss  Travers." 

"Ah,  indeed  ;  that's  a  bad  sign,"  muttered  Mivers. 

Sir  Peter  did  not  hear  him,  and  went  on. 

"  And,  besides,  I  feel  pretty  sure  that  the  dear  girl  has 
already  a  regard  for  Kenelm  which  allows  no, room  for  a 
rival.  However,  I  shall  not  forget  your  hint,  but  keep  a 
sliaip  lookout  ;  and  if  I  see  the  young  man  wants  to  be  too 
sweet  on  Cecilia,  I  shall  cut  short  his  visit." 

"  Give  yourself  no  trouble  in  the  matter  ;  it  will  do  no 
good.  IMarriages  are  made  in  heaven.  Heaven's  will  be 
done.  If  I  can  get  away,  I  will  run  down  to  you  for  a  day 
or  two.  Perhaps  in  that  case  you  can  ask  Lady  Glenalvon. 
I  like  her,  and  she  likes  Kenelm.  Have  you  finished  ?  I 
see  the  brougham  is  at  the  door,  and  we  have  to  call  at  your 
hotel  to  take  up  your  carpet-bag." 

Mivers  was  deliberately  sealing  his  notes  while  he  thus 
spoke.  He  now  rang  for  his  servant,  gave  orders  for  their 
delivery,  and  then  followed  Sir  Peter  down-stairs  and  into 
the  brougham.  Not  a  word  would  he  say  more  about  Gor- 
don, and  Sir  Peter  shrank  from  telling  him  about  the  ^^20,- 
000.  Chillingly  Mivers  was  perhaps  the'Iast  person  to  whom 
Sir  Peter  would  be  tempted  to  parade  an  act  of  generosity. 
Mivers  might  not  unfrequently  do  a  generous  act  himself, 
provided  it  was  not  divulged  ;  but  he  had  always  a  sneer  for 
the  generosity  of  others. 


CFIAPTER  H. 

Wandering  back  towards  Moleswich,  Kenelm  found 
himself  a  little  before  sunset  on  the  banks  of  the  a:arrulous 
brook,  almost  opposite  to  the  house  inhabited  by  Lily  Mor- 
daunt.  He  stood  long  and  silently  by  the  grassy  margin, 
his  dark  shadow  falling  over  the  stream,  broken  into  frag- 
ments by  the  eddy  and  strife  of  waves,  fresh  from  their  leap 
down  the  neighboring  waterfall.  His  eyes  rested  on  the 
house  and  the  garden  lawn  in  the  front.  The  upper  win- 
dows were  open.  ''  I  wonder  which  is  hers,"  he  said  to 
himself.  At  last  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  gardener,  bend- 
ing over  a  flower-border  with  his  watering-pot,  and  then, 
moving  slowly  through  the  little  shrubbery,  no  doubt  to  his 

14 


314  KEN  ELM   CIIILLTNGLY. 

own  cottage.     Now  the  lawn  was  solitary,  save  that  a  couple 
of  thrushes  dropped  suddenly  on  the  sward. 

"Good-evening,  sir,"  said  a  voice.  "A  capital  spot  for 
trout  this." 

Kenelm  turned  his  head,  and  beheld  on  the  footpath,  just 
behind  him,  a  respectable  elderly  man,  apparently  of  the 
class  of  a  small  retail  tradesman,  with  a  fishing-rod  in  his 
hand  and  a  basket  belted  to  his  side. 

"  For  trout,"  replied  Kenelm  \  "  I  daresay.  A  strangely 
attractive  spot  indeed." 

"  Are  you  an  angler,  sir,  if  I  may  make  bold  to  inquire  ? " 
asked  the  elderly  man,  somewhat  perhaps  puzzled  as  to  the 
rank  of  the  stranger  ;  noticing,  on  the  one  hand,  his  dress 
and  his  mien,  on  the  other,  slung  to  his  shoulders,  the  worn 
and  shabby  knapsack  which  Kenelm  had  carried,  at  home 
and  abroad,  the  preceding  year. 

*'  Ay,  I  am  an  angler." 

"Then  this  is  the  best  place  in  the  whole  stream.  Look, 
sir,  there  is  Izaak  Walton's  summer-house  ;  and  farther  down 
you  see  that  white,  neat-looking  house.  Well,  that  is  my 
house,  sir,  and  I  have  an  apartment  which  I  let  to  gentle- 
men anglers.  It  is  generally  occupied  throughout  the  sum- 
mer months.  I  expect  every  day  to  have  a  letter  to  engage 
it,  but  it  is  vacant  now.  A  very  nice  apartment,  sir — sitting- 
room  and  bedroom." 

"  Descende  ccelo,  ct  die  age  tihia,'"  said  Kenelrn. 

"  Sir  !  "  said  the  elderly  man. 

"  I  beg  you  ten  thousand  i)ar(lons.  I  have  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  have  been  at  the  university,  and  to  have  learned  a 
little  Latin,  which  sometimes  comes  back  very  inoppor- 
tunely. But,  speaking  in  plain  English,  what  I  meant  to 
say  is  this  :  I  invoked  the  Muse  to  descend  from  heaven 
and  bring  with  her — the  original  says  a  fife,  but  I  meant — a 
fishing-rod.  I  should  think  your  apartment  would  suit  me 
exactly  ;  pray  show  it  to  me." 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure,"  said  the  elderly  man. 
"  The  Muse  need  not  brina:  a  fishiner-rcjd  !  we  have  all  sorts 
of  tackle  at  your  service,  and  a  boat  too,  if  you  care  for  that. 
The  stream  hereabouts  is  so  shallow  and  narrow  that  a  boat 
is  of  little  use  till  you  get  farther  down." 

"  I  don't  want  to  get  farther  down  ;  but  should  I  want  to 
get  to  the  opposite  bank  without  wading  across,  would  the 
boat  take  me,  or  is  there  a  bridge  ?  "  ■ 

'"The  boat  can  take  you.     It  is  aflat-bottomed  punt,  and 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  315 

there  is  a  bridge  too  for  foot-passengers,  just  opposite  my 
house  ;  and  between  this  and  Moleswich,  where  the  stream 
widens,  there  is  a  ferry.  The  stone  bridge  for  traffic  is  at 
tlie  farther  end  of  the  town." 

"  Good.     Let  us  go  at  once  to  your  house." 

The  two  men  walked  on. 

"  By-the-by,"  said  Kenehii  as  they  walked,  "do  you  know 
much  of  the  family  who  inhabit  the  pretty  cottage  on  the 
opposite  side,  which  we  have  just  left  behind  ?" 

"Mrs.  Cameron's.  Yes,  of  course,  avery  good  lady  ;  and 
Mr.  Melville,  the  painter.  I  am  sure  I  ought  to  know,  for 
he  has  often  lodged  with  me  when  he  came  to  visit  Mrs. 
Cameron.  He  recommends  my  apartment  to  his  friends, 
and  they  are  my  best  lodgers.  I  like  painters,  sir,  though 
I  don't  know  much  about  paintings.  They  are  pleasant 
gentlemen,  and  easily  contented  with  my  humble  roof  and 
fare." 

"You  are  quite  right.  I  don't  know  much  about  paint- 
ings myself,  but  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  painters, 
judging  not  from  what  I  have  seen  of  them,  for  I  have  not 
a  single  acquaintance  among  them  personally,  but  from 
what  I  have  read  of  their  lives,  are,  as  a  general  rule,  not 
only  pleasant  but  noble  gentlemen.  They  form  within 
themselves  desires  to  beautify  or  exalt  commonplace  things, 
and  they  can  only  accomplish  their  desires  by  a  constant 
study  of  what  is  beautiful  and  what  is  exalted.  A  man  con- 
stantly so  engaged  ought  to  be  a  very  noble  gentleman, 
even  though  he  maybe  the  son  of  a  shoeblack.  And  living 
in  a  higher  world  than  wc  do,  I  can  conceive  that  he  i§,  as 
you  say,  very  well  contented  with  humble  roof  and  fare  in 
the  world  we  inhabit." 

"  Exactly,  sir  ;  I  see — I  see  now,  though  you  put  it  in  a 
way  that  never  struck  me  before." 

"And  yet,"  said  Kenelm,  looking  benignly  at  the  speaker, 
")'ou  seem  to  me  a  well-educated  and  intelligent  man  ;  re- 
flective on  things  in  general,  without  being  unmindful  of 
your  interests  in  particular,  especially  when  you  have  lodg- 
ings to  let.  Do  not  be  offended.  That  sort  of  man  is  not 
perhaps  born  to  be  a  painter,  but  I  respect  him  highly.  The 
world,  sir,  requires  the  vast  majority  of  its  inhabitants  to  live 
in  it — to  live  by  it.  '  Each  for  himself,  and  God  for  us  all.' 
The  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  number  is  best  se- 
cured by  a  prudent  consideration  for  Niunber  One." 

Somewhat  to   Kenelm's   surprise   (allowing  that  he  had 


3i6  KENELM   CniT.I.INCLY. 

now  learned  enough  of  life  to  be  occasionally  surprised),  the 
elderly  man  here  made  a  dead  halt,  stretched  out  his  hand 
cordially,  and  cried  "Hear,  hear!  I  see  that,  like  me,  you 
are  a  decided  democrat." 

"  Democrat !  Pray,  may  I  ask,  not  why  you  are  one — 
that  would  be  a  liberty,  and  democrats  resent  any  liberty 
taken  with  themselves — but  why  you  suppose  I  am  ?  " 

"  You  spoke  of  the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest 
niuiiber.  That  is  a  democratic  sentiment,  surely  !  Besides, 
did  not  you  say,  sir,  that  painters — painters,  sir,  painters, 
even  if  they  were  the  sons  of  shoeblacks,  were  the  true  gen- 
tlemen— the  true  noblemen  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  say  that  exactly,  to  the  disparagement  of  other 
gentlemen  and  nobles.     But  if  I  did,  what  tlien  ?" 

"Sir,  I  agree  with  you.  I  despise  rank,  I  despise  dukes, 
and  earls,  and  aristocrats.  'An  honest  man's  the  noblest 
work  of  God.'  Some  poet  says  that.  I  think  Shakspeare. 
Wonderful  man,  Shakspeare.  A  tradesman's  son — butcher, 
I  believe.  Eh  !  My  uncle  was  a  butcher,  and  I  might  have 
been  an  alderman.  I  go  along  with  you  heartily,  heartily. 
I  am  a  democrat,  every  inch  of  me.  Shake  hands,  sir — shake 
hands  ;  we  are  all  equals.  '  Each  for  himself,  and  God  for 
us  all.'" 

"  I  have  no  objection  to  shake  hands,"  said  Kenelm  ; 
"  but  don't  let  me  owe  your  condescension  to  false  pretences. 
Though  we  are  all  equal  before  the  law,  except  the  rich 
man,  who  has  little  chance  of  justice  as  against  a  poor  man 
when  submitted  to  an  English  jury,  yet  I  utterly  deny  that 
any  two  men  yuu  select  can  be  equals.  One  must  beat  the 
other  in  something ;  and  when  (jne  man  beats  another, 
democracy  ceases  and  aristocracy  begins." 

"  Aristocracy  !  I  don't  see  that.  What  do  you  mean  by 
aristocracy  ? " 

The  ascendency  of  the  better  man.  In  a  rude  State  the 
better  man  is  the  stronger  ;  in  a  ccn-rupt  State,  perhaps  the 
more  roguish  ;  in  modern  republics  the  jobbers  get  the 
money  and  the  lawyers  get  the  power.  In  Avell-ordered 
States  alone  aristocracy  appears  at  its  genuine  worth  :  the 
better  man  in  birth,  because  respect  for  ancestry  secures  a 
liigher  standard  of  honor  ;  the  l)etterman  in  wealth,  because 
of  the  immense  uses  to  enterprise,  energy,  and  the  fine  arts, 
Avhich  rich  men  must  be  if  they  follow  their  own  inclina- 
tions ;  the  better  man  in  character,  the  better  man  inability, 
for  reasons  too  obvious  to  define  ;  and  these  two  last  will 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  317 

beat  the  others  in  the  government  of  the  State,  if  the  State 
be  flourishing  and  free.  All  tliese  four  classes  of  better  men 
constitute  true  aristocracy  ;  and  when  a  better  government 
than  a  true  aristocracy  shall  be  devised  by  the  wit  of  man, 
we  shall  not  be  far  off  from  the  Millennium  and  the  reign 
of  saints.  But  here  we  are  at  the  house — yours,  is  it  not  ? 
I  like  the  look  of  it  extremely." 

The  elderly  man  now  entered  the  little  porch,  over  which 
clambered  honeysuckle  and  ivy  intertwined,  and  usliered 
Kenelm  into  a  pleasant  parlor,  Avith  a  bay  window,  and  an 
equally  pleasant  bedroom  behind  it. 

"Will  it  do,  sir?" 

"Perfectly.  I  take  it  from  this  moment.  My  knapsack 
contains  all  I  shall  need  for  the  night.  There  is  a  port- 
manteau of  mine  at  Mr.  Somers's  shop,  which  can  be  sent 
here  in  the  morning." 

"But  we  have  not  settled  about  the  terms,"  said  the 
elderly  man,  beginning  to  feel  rather  doubtful  whether  he 
ouglit  thus  to  have  installed  in  his  home  a  stalwart  pedes- 
trian of  whom  he  knew  nothing,  and  who,  though  talking 
glibly  enough  on  other  things,  had  preserved  an  ominous 
silence  on  the  subject  of  payment. 

"  Terms  ?  true.     Name  them." 

"  Including  board  ?" 

"  Certainly.  Chameleons  live  on  air.  Democrats  on 
wind-bags.  I  have  a  more  vulgar  appetite,  and  require 
mutton  !  " 

"  Meat  is  very  dear  nowadays,"  said  the  elderly  man, 
"  and  I  am  afraid,  for  board  and  lodging,  I  cannot  charge 
you  less  than  jCt,  t^s. — say  3^  a  week.  My  lodgers  usually 
pay  a  week  in  advance." 

"  Agreed,"  said  Kenelm,  extracting  three  sovereigns  from 
his  purse.  "  I  have  dined  already — I  want  nothing  more 
this  evening  ;  let  me  detain  you  no  further.  Be  kind 
enough  to  shut  the  door  after  you." 

When  he  was  alone,  Kenelm  seated  himself  in  the  recess 
of  the  bay  window,  against  the  casement,  and  looked  forth 
intently.  Yes,  he  was  right — he  could  see  from  thence  the 
home  of  I.ily.  Not,  indeed,  more  tlian  a  white  gleam  of  the 
house  through  the  interstices  of  trees  and  shrubs — but  the 
gentle  lawn  sloping"  to  the  brook,  with  the  great  willow  at 
the  end  dipping  its  boughs  into  the  water  and  shutting  out 
all  view  beyond  itself  by  its  bower  of  tender  leaves.  The 
young  man  bent  his  face  on  his  hands  and  mused  dreamily ; 


3i8  KENLLM   CHILLINGLY. 

the  evening  deepened,  the  stars  came  forth,  the  rays  of  the 
moon  now  peered  aslant  through  the  arching  dips  of  the 
willow,  silvering  their  way  as  they  stole  to  the  waves  below. 

"  Shall  I  bring  lights,  sir  ?  or  do  you  prefer  a  lamp  or 
candles  ? "  asked  a  voice  behind  ;  the  voice  of  the  elderly 
man's  wife.     "  Do  you  like  the  shutters  closed  .'*" 

The  questions  startled  the  dreamer.  They  seemed 
mockins:  his  own  old  mockings  on  the  romance  of  love. 
Lamp  or  candles,  practical  lights  for  prosaic  eyes,  and 
shutters  closed  against  moon  and  stars  ! 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,  not  yet,"  he  said  ;  and  rising  quietly 
he  placed  his  hand  on  the  window-sill,  swung  himself 
through  the  open  casement,  and  passed  slowly  along  the 
margin  of  the  rivulet  by  a  path  chequered  alternately  with 
shade  and  starlight ;  the  moon  yet  more  slowly  rising  above 
the  willows  and  lengthening  its  track  along  the  wavelets. 


CHAPTER  III. 


Though  Kenelm  did  not  think  it  necessary  at  present  to 
report  to  his  parents,  or  his  London  acquaintances,  his  re- 
cent movements  and  his  present  resting-place,  it  never 
entered  into  his  head  to  \nY\i  perdu  in  the  immediate  vicinity 
of  Lily's  house  and  seek  opportunities  of  meeting  her  clan- 
destinely. Me  walked  to  Mrs.  Braefiield's  the  next  morning, 
found  her  at  home,  and  said,  in  rather  a  more  off-hand 
manner  than  was  habitual  to  him,  "I  have  hired  a  lodging 
in  your  neighborhood,  on  the  banks  of  tlie  brook,  for  the 
sake  of  its  trout-fishing.  So  you  will  allow  me  to  call  on 
you  sometimes,  and  one  of  these  days  I  hope  you  will  give 
me  the  dinner  that  I  so  unceremoniously  rejected  some  days 
ago.  I  w\as  then  summoned  away  suddenly,  much  against 
my  will." 

"  Yes  ;  my  husband  said  that  you  shot  off  from  him  with 
a  wild  exclamation  about  duty." 

"  Quite  true  ;  my  reason,  and  I  may  say  my  conscience, 
were  greatly  perplexed  upon  a  matter  extremely  important 
and  altogether  new  to  me.  I  went  to  Oxford — the  place 
above  all  others  in  which  questions  of  reason  and  conscience 
are  most  deeply  considered,  and  ]3erhaps  least  satisfactorily 
solved.     Relieved  in  my  mind  by  my  visit  to  a  distinguished 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  319 

ornament  of   that  university,  I   felt   I  might    indulge   in  a 
summer  holiday,  and  here  I  am." 

"  Ah  !  I  luiderstand.  You  liad  religious  dovibts — thought 
perhaps  of  turning  Roman  Catholic.  I  hope  you  are  not 
going  to  do  so  ?  " 

"My  doubts  were  not  necessarily  of  a  religious  nature. 
Pagans  have  entertained  them." 

"  Whatever  they  were,  I  am  pleased  to  see  they  did  not 
prevent  your  return,"  said  Mrs.  Braefield,  graciously.  "But 
where  have  you  found  a  lodging — why  not  have  come  to  us  ? 
My  husband  would  have  been  scarcely  less  glad  than  myself 
to  receive  you." 

"  You  say  that  so  sincerely,  and  so  cordially,  that  to 
answer  by  a  brief  '  I  thank  you  '  seems  rigid  and  heartless. 
But  there  are  times  in  life  when  one  yearns  to  be  alone — to 
comnuuie  with  one's  own  heart,  and,  if  possible,  be  still  ;  I 
am  in  one  of  those  moody  times.     Bear  with  me." 

Mrs.  Braefield  looked  at  him  with  affectionate,  kindly  in- 
terest. She  had  gone  before  him  through  the  solitary  land 
of  young  romance.  She  remembered  her  dreamy,  dangerous 
girlhood,  when  she  too  had  yearned  to  be  alone. 

"Bear  with  you — yes,  indeed.  I  wish,  Mr.  Chillingly, 
that  I  were  your  sister,  and  that  you  would  confide  in  me. 
Something  troubles  you." 

"Troubles  me — no.  My  thoughts  are  happy  ones,  and 
they  may  sometimes  perplex  me,  but  they  do  not  trouble." 
Kenelm  said  this  very  softly  ;  and  in  the  warmer  light  of  his 
musing  eyes,  the  sweeter  play  of  his  tranquil  smile,  there  was 
an  expression  which  did  not  belie  his  words. 

"  You  have  not  told  me  where  you  have  found  a  lodging," 
said  Mrs.  Braefield,  somewhat  abruptly. 

"  Did  I  not  ?"  replied  Kenelm,  with  an  unconscious  start, 
as  from  an  abstracted  reverie.  "With  no  undistinguished 
host,  I  presume,  for  when  I  asked  him  this  morning  for  the 
right  address  of  his  cottage,  in  order  to  direct  such  luggage 
as  I  have  to  be  sent  there,  he  gave  me  his  card  with  a  grand 
air,  saying,  'I  am  pretty  well  known  at  Moleswich,  by  and 
beyond  it.'  I  have  not  yet  looked  at  his  card.  Oh,  here  it 
is — 'Algernon  Sidney  Gale  Jones,  Cromwell  Lodge.'  You 
laugh.     What  do  you  know  of  him  ?" 

"  I  wish  my  husband  were  here  ;  he  would  tell  you  more 
about  him.     Mr.  Jones  is  quite  a  character." 

"  So  I  perceive." 

"  A  great  radical — very  talkative  and  troublesome  af  the 


320  KENELM  CHILLINGL  V. 

vestry  ;  but  our  vicar,  Mr.  Emlyn,  says  there  is  no  real  harm 
in  him — that  liis  bark  is  worse  than  his  bite — and  that  liis 
republican  or  radical  notions  must  be  laid  to  the  doors  of  his 
godfathers  !  In  addition  to  his  name  of  Jones,  he  was  un- 
happily christened  Gale  ;  Gale  Jones  being  a  noted  radical 
orator  at  the  time  of  his  birth.  And  I  suppose  Algernon 
Sidney  was  prefixed  to  Gale  in  ordor  to  devote  the  new-born 
more  emphatically  to  republican  principles." 

"  Naturally,  therefore,  Algernon  Sidney  Gale  Jones  bap- 
tizes his  house  Cromwell  Lodge,  seeing  that  Algernon  Sidney 
held  the  Protectorate  in  especial  abhorrence,  and  that  the 
original  Gale  Jones,  if  an  honest  radical,  must  have  done  the 
same,  considering  what  rough  usage  the  advocates  of  par- 
liamentary reform  met  witli  at  the  hands  of  his  Highness. 
But  we  must  be  indulgent  to  men  who  have  been  unfortu- 
nately christened  before  they  had  any  choice  of  the  names 
that  were  to  rule  their  fate.  I  myself  should  have  been  Jess 
whimsical  had  I  not  been  named  after  a  Kenelm  wlio  believed 
in  sympathetic  powders.  Apart  from  his  political  doctrines, 
I  like  my  landlord— he  keeps  his  wife  in  excellent  order. 
She  seems  frightened  at  tiie  sound  of  her  own  footsteps,  and 
glides  to  and  fro,  a  pallid  image  of  submissive  womanliood 
in  list  slippers." 

"  Great  recommendations  certainly,  and  Cromwell  Lodge 
is  very  prettily  situated.  By-the-by,  it  is  very  near  Mrs. 
Cameron's." 

"Now  I  think  of  it,  so  it  is,"  said  Kenelm,  innocently. 

Ah  !  my  friend  Kenelm,  enemy  of  shams,  and  truth- 
teller /dir  excellence,  what  hast  thou  come  to!  How  are  the 
mighty  fallen  !  "  Since  you  say  you  will  dine  with  us,  sup- 
pose we  fix  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  I  will  ask  Mrs. 
Cameron  and  Lily." 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow — I  shall  be  delighted." 

"An  early  hour  ?  " 

"The  earlier  the  better." 

"  Is  six  o'clock  too  early  ?" 

"  Too  early — certainly  not — on  the  contrary Good- 
day — I  must  now  go  to  Mrs.  Somers :  she  has  charge  of  my 
portmanteau." 

Then  Kenelm  rose. 

"  Poor  dear  Lily  ! "  said  Mrs.  Braefield  ;  "  I  wish  she  were 
less  of  a  child." 

Kenelm  reseated  himself. 

"  Is  she  a  child  ?     I  don't  think  she  is  actually  a  child." 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY.  321 

**  Not  in  years  ;  she  is  between  seventeen  and  eighteen  ; 
but  my  husband  says  that  she  is  too  childish  to  talk  to,  and 
always  tells  me  to  take  her  off  his  hands  ;  he  would  rather 
talk  with  Mrs  Cameron." 

"Indeed!" 

"  Still,  I  find  something  in  her." 

"Indeed!" 

"Not  exactly  childish,  nor  quite  womanish." 

"What  then?" 

"  I  can't  exactly  define.  But  you  know  what  Mr.  Melville 
and  Mrs.  Cameron  call  her,  as  a  pet  name  ?" 

"  No." 

"Fairy  !  Fairies  have  no  age  ;  fairy  is  neither  child  nor 
woman." 

"  Fairy.  She  is  called  Fairy  by  those  who  know  her  best  ? 
Fairy  ! " 

"And  she  believes  in  fairies." 

"  Does  she  ? — so  do  I.  Pardon  me,  I  must  be  off.  The 
day  after  to-morrow — six  o'clock." 

"Wait  one  moment,"  said  Elsie,  going  to  her  writing- 
table.  "  Since  you  pass  Grasmere  on  your  way  home,  will 
you  kindly  leave  this  note  ?" 

"  I  thought  Grasmere  was  a  lake  in  the  north  ?" 

"Yes  ;  but  Mr.  Melville  chose  to  call  the  cottage  by  the 
name  of  the  lake.  I  think  the  first  picture  he  ever  sold  was 
a  view  of  Wordsworth's  house  there.  Here  is  my  note  to 
ask  Mrs.  Cameron  to  meet  you  ;  but  if  you  object  to  be  my 
messenger " 

"  Object !  my  dear  Mrs.  Braefield.  As  you  say,  I  pass 
close  by  the  cottage." 


CHAPTER  IV 


KexNelm  went  with  somewhat  rapid  pace  from  Mrs.  Brae- 
field's  to  the  shop  in  the  High  Street,  kept  by  Will  Somers. 
Jessie  was  behind  the  counter,  which  was  thronged  with 
customers.  Kenelm  gave  her  a  brief  direction  about  his 
portmanteau,  and  then  passed  into  the  back  parlor,  where  her 
husband  was  employed  on  his  baskets — with  the  baby's  cradle 
in  the  corner,  and  its  grandmother  rocking  it  mechanically, 
as  she  read  a  wonderful  missionary  tract  full  of  tales  of 


14* 


322  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

miraculous   conversions:  into  what  sort  of  Christians    we 
will  not  pause  to  inquire. 

"And  so  you  are  happy,  Will  ?"  said  Kenelm,  seating 
himself  between  the  basket-maker  and  the  infant  ;  the  dear 
old  mother  beside  him,  reading  the  tract  which  linked  her 
dreams  of  life  eternal  with  life  just  opening  in  the  cradle 
tliat  she  rocked.  He  not  happy !  How  he  pitied  the  man 
who  could  ask  such  a  question  ! 

"  Happy,  sir  !  I  should  think  so,  indeed.  There  is  not 
a  night  on  which  Jessie  and  I,  and  mother  too,  do  not  pray 
that  some  day  or  other  you  may  be  as  happy.  By-and-by 
the  baby  will  learn  to  pray  '  God  bless  papa,  and  mamma, 
grandmamma,  and  Mr.  Chillingly.'  " 

"  There  is  some  one  else  much  more  deserving  of  prayers 
than  I,  though  needing  them  less.  You  will  know  some 
day — pass  it  by  now.  To  return  to  the  point ;  you  are 
happy  ;  if  1  asked  why,  would  you  not  say,  *  Because  I  have 
married  the  girl  I  love,  and  have  never  repented'  ?" 

"Well,  sir,  that  is  about  it ;  though,  begging  your  par- 
don, I  think  it  could  be  put  more  prettily  somehow." 

"  You  are  right  there.  But  perhaps  love  and  happiness 
never  yet  found  any  words  that  could  fitly  express  them. 
Good-bye,  for  the  present." 

Ah  !  if  it  were  as  mere  materialists,  or  as  many  middle- 
aged  or  elderly  folks,  who  if  materialists  are  so  without 
knowing  it,  imreflcctingly  say,  "  The  main  element  of  hap- 
piness is  bodily  or  animal  health  and  strength,"  that  ques- 
tion which  Chillingly  put  would  appear  a  very  unmeaning  or 
a  very  insulting  one  addressed  to  a  pale  cripple,  who,  how- 
ever improved  of  late  in  health,  would  still  be  sickly  and 
ailing  all  his  life,- — put,  too,  by  a  man  of  the  rarest  conform- 
ation of  physical  powers  that  nature  can  adapt  to  physical 
enjoyment — a  man  who,  since  the  age  in  which  memory- 
commences,  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  be  unwell, 
who  could  scarcely  miderstand  you  if  you  talked  of  a  finger- 
ache,  and  whom  tliose  refinements  of  mental  culture  which 
nudtiply  the  delights  of  the  senses  had  endowed  with  the 
most  exquisite  conceptions  of  such  happiness  as  mere  nature 
and  its  instincts  can  give  !  But  Will  did  not  think  the  ques- 
tion unmeaning  or  insulting.  He,  the  poor  cripple,  felt  a 
vast  superiority  on  the  scale  of  joyous  being  over  the  young 
Hercules,  well-born,  cultured,  and  wealthy,  who  could  know 
so  little  of  happiness  as  to  ask  the  crippled  l)asket-maker  if 
he  were  hapj:)y — he,  blessed  husband  and  father! 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  323 


CHAPTER  V. 

Lily  was  seated  on  the  grass  under  a  chestnut-tree  on 
the  lawn.  A  white  cat,  not  long  emerged  from  kittenhood, 
curled  itself  by  her  side.  On  her  lap  was  an  open  volume, 
which  she  was  reading  with  the  greatest  delight. 

Mrs.  Cameron  came  from  the  house,  looked  round,  per- 
ceived the  girl,  and  approached  ;  and  either  she  moved  so 
gently,  or  Lily  was  so  absorbed  in  her  book,  that  the  latter 
was  not  aware  of  her  presence  till  she  felt  a  light  hand  on 
her  shoulder,  and,  looking  up,  recognized  her  aunt's  gentle 
face. 

"Ah!  Fairy,  Fairy,  that  silly  book,  when  you  ought  to 
be  at  your  French  verbs.  What  will  your  guardian  say 
when  he  comes  and  finds  you  have  so  wasted  time  ?  " 

"  He  will  say  that  fairies  never  waste  their  time  ;  and  he 
will  scold  you  for  saying  so."  Therewith  Lily  threw  down 
the  book,  sprang  up  to  her  feet,  wound  her  arm  round  Mrs. 
Cameron's  neck,  and  kissed  her  fondly.  "  There  !  is  that 
wasting  time?  I  love  you  so,  aunty.  In  a  day  like  this  I 
think  I  love  everybody  and  everything !  "  As  she  said  this, 
she  drew  up  her  lithe  form,  looked  into  the  blue  sky,  and 
with  parted  lips  seemed  to  drink  in  air  and  sunshine.  Then 
she  woke  up  the  dozing  cat,  and  began  chasing  it  round  the 
lawn. 

Mrs.  Cameron  stood  still,  regarding  her  with  moistened 
eyes.  Just  at  that  moment  Kenelm  entered  through  the 
garden  gate.  He,  too,  stood  still,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
undulating  movements  of  F'airy's  exquisite  form.  She  had 
arrested  her  favorite,  and  was  now  at  play  with  it,  shaking 
off  her  straw  hat,  and  drawing  the  ribbon  attached  to  it 
tantalizingly  along  the  smooth  grass.  Her  rich  hair,  thus 
released  and  disheveled  by  the  exercise,  fell  partly  over  her 
face  in  wavy  ringlets  ;  and  her  musical  laugh  and  words  of 
sportive  endearment  sounded  on  Kenelm's  ear  more  joy- 
ously than  the  trill  of  the  skylark,  more  sweetly  than  the 
coo  of  the  ringdove. 

He  approached  towards  Mrs.  Cameron.  Lily  turned 
suddenly  and  saw  him.     Instinctively  she  smoothed  back 


324 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 


her  loosened  tresses,  replaced  the  straw  hat,  and  came  up 
demurely  to  his  side  just  as  he  accosted  her  aunt. 

"  Pardon  my  intrusion,  Mrs.  Cameron.  I  am  the  bearer 
of  this  note  from  Mrs.  Braefield."  While  the  aunt  read  the 
note,  he  turned  to  the  niece. 

"  You  promised  to  show  me  the  picture,  Miss  Mordaunt." 

"  But  that  was  a  long  time  ago." 

"  Too  long  to  expect  a  lady's  promise  to  be  kept  ?" 

Lily  seemed  to  ponder  that  question,  and  hesitated  be- 
fore she  answered. 

"  I  will  show  you  the  picture.  I  don't  think  I  ever  broke 
a  promise  yet,  but  I  shall  be  more  careful  how  I  make  one 
in  future." 

"  Why  so  ?  " 

''  Because  you  did  not  value  mine  when  I  made  it,  and 
that  hurt  me."  Lily  lifted  up  her  head  with  a  bewitching 
stateliness,  and  added  gravely,  "  I  was  offended." 

"  Mrs.  Braefield  is  very  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Cameron  ;  "  she 
asks  us  to  dine  the  day  after  to-morrow.  You  would  like  to 
go,  Lily  ?  " 

"  All  grown-up  people,  I  suppose  ?  No,  thank  you, 
dear  aunt.  You  go  alone  :  I  would  rather  stay  at  home. 
May  I  have  little  Clemmy  to  i)lay  with  ?  She  will  bring 
Juba,  and  Blanche  is  very  partial  to  Jubn,  though  she  does 
scratch  him." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear,  you  shall  have  your  playmate,  and 
I  will  go  by  myself." 

Kcnelm  stood  aghast.  "You  will  not  go,  Miss  Mor- 
daunt? Mrs.  Braefield  will  be  so  disappointc-d.  And  if  you 
don't  go,  whom  shall  I  have  to  talk  to  ?  I  don't  like  grown- 
up people  better  than  you  do." 

"  You  are  going  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"And  if.  1  go  you  will  talk  to  me  ?  I  am  afraid  of  Mr. 
Braefield.     He  is  so  wise." 

"  I  will  save  you  from  him,  and  will  not  utter  a  grain  of 
wisdom." 

"  Aunty,  I  will  go." 

Here  Lily  made  a  bound  and  caught  up  Blanche,  who, 
taking  her  kisses  resignedly,  stared  with  evident  curiosity 
upon  Kcnelm. 

Here  a  bell  within  tlie  house  rung  tlie  announcement  of 
luncheon.  Mrs.  Cameron  invited  Kcnelm  to  partake  of  that 
meal.     He  felt  as  Romulus  might  have  felt  when  first  in- 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  325 

vited  to  taste  the  ambrosia  of  the  gods.  Yet  certainly  that 
hmcheon  was  not  such  as  might  have  pleased  Kenelm  Chil 
lingly  in  the  early  days  of  The  Temperance  Hotel.  But 
somehow  or  other  of  late  he  had  lost  appetite  ;  and  on  this 
occasion  a  very  modest  share  of  a  very  slender  dish  of 
chicken  fricasseed,  and  a  few  cherries  daintily  arranged  on 
vine-leaves,  which  Lily  selected  for  him,  contented  him — as 
probably  a  very  little  ambrosia  contented  Romulus  while 
feasting  his  eyes  on  Hebe. 

Luncheon  over,  while  Mrs.  Cameron  wrote  her  reply  to 
Elsie,  Kenelm  was  conducted  by  Lily  into  her  own  ^7<;7/ room, 
in  vulgar  parlance  her  botidoir,  though  it  did  not  look  as  if  any 
one  ever  bonder  d  there.  It  was  exquisitely  pretty — pretty 
not  as  a  woman's,  but  a  child's  dream  of  the  own  own  room 
she  would  like  to  have — wondrously  neat  and  cool  and 
pure-looking  ;  a  trellis  paper,  the  trellis  gay  with  roses  and 
woodbine  and  birds  and  butterflies  ;  draperies  of  muslin, 
festooned  with  dainty  tassels  and  ribbons  ;  a  dwarf  book- 
case, that  seemed  well  stored,  at  least  as  to  bindings  ;  a 
dainty  little  writing-table  in  French  /nai-queterie—loo^m^ioo 
fresh  and  spotless  to  have  known  hard  service.  The  case- 
ment was  open,  and  in  keeping  with  the  trellis  paper  ; 
■woodbine  and  roses  from  without  encroached  on  the  win- 
dow-sides, gently  stirred  by  the  faint  summer  breeze,  and 
waftincf  sweet  odors  into  the  little  room.  Kenelm  went  to 
the  window,  and  glanced  on  the  view  beyond.  "  I  was 
right,"  he  said  to  himself  ;  "I  divined  it."  But  though  he 
spoke  in  a  low^  inward  whisper,  Lily,  who  had  watched  his 
movements  in  surprise,  overheard. 

"  You  divined  it.     Divined  what  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  nothing  ;  I  Avas  but  talking  to  myself." 

"Tell  me  what  you  divined — I  insist  upon  it!"  and 
Fairy  petulantly  stamped  her  tiny  foot  on  the  floor. 

"  Do  you  ?  Then  I  obey.  I  have  taken  a  lodging  for  a 
short  time  on  the  other  side  of  the  brook — Cromwell  Lodge 
— and,  seeing  your  house  as  I  passed,  I  divined  that  your 
room  was  in  this  part  of  it.  How  soft  here  is  the  view  of 
the  water  !     Ah  !  yonder  is  Izaak  Walton's  summer-house." 

"  Don't  talk  about  Izaak  Walton,  or  I  shall  quarrel  with 
you,  as  I  did  with  Lion  when  he  wanted  me  to  like  that 
cruel  book." 

"  Who  is  Lion  ?  " 

"  Lion — of   course,  my   guardian.     I    called    him    Lion 


326  KEN  ELM   Clin.LIXGLY. 

when  I  was  a  little  child.     It  was  on   seeing   in  one  of  his 
books  a  prim  of  a  Hon  playing  with  a  little  child." 

"Ah!  I  know  the  design  well,"  said  Kenelm,  with  a 
slight  sigh.  "  It  is  from  an  antique  Greek  gem.  It  is  not 
the  lion  that  plays  with  the  child,  it  is  the  child  that  mas- 
ters the  lion,  and  the  Greeks  called  the  child  '  Love.'  " 

This  idea  seemed  beyond  Lily's  perfect  comprehension. 
She  paused  before  she  answered,  with  the  naivete  of  a  child 
six  years  old  : 

"  I  see  now  why  I  mastered  Blanche,  who  will  not  make 
friends  with  any  one  else  :  I  love  Blanche.  Ah,  that  re- 
minds me — come  and  look  at  the  picture." 

She  went  to  the  wall  over  the  writing-table,  drew  a  silk 
curtain  aside  from  a  small  painting  in  a  dainty  velvet  frame- 
work, and,  pointing  to  it,  cried  with  triumph,  "  Look  there ! 
is  it  not  beautiful  ?" 

Kenelm  had  been  prepared  to  see  a  landscape,  or  a 
group,  or  anything  but  what  he  did  see — it  was  the  portrait 
of  Blanche  when  a  kitten.  - 

Little  elevated  though  the  subject  was,  it  was  treated 
with  graceful  fancy.  The  kitten  had  evidently  ceased  from 
playing  with  the  cotton-reel  that  lay  between  her  paws,  and 
was  fixing  her  gaze  intent  on  a  bullfinch  that  had  lighted  on 
a  spray  within  her  reach. 

"  Vou  understand,"  said  Lily,  placing  her  hand  on  his 
arm  and  drawing  him  towards  what  she  thought  the  best 
light  for  the  picture.  ''  It  is  Blanche's  first  sight  of  a  bird. 
Look  well  at  her  face  ;  don't  you  sec  a  sudden  surprise — 
half  joy,  half  fear  ?  She  ceases  to  play  with  the  reel.  Her 
intellect— or,  as  Mr.  Braefield  would  say,  'her  instinct '—is 
for  the  first  time  aroused.  From  that  moment  Blanche  was 
no  longer  a  mere  kitten.  And  it  required,  oh,  the  most 
careful  education  to  teach  her  not  to  kill  the  poor  little 
birds.     She  never  does  now,  but  I  had  such  trouble  with  her." 

"  I  cannot  say  honestly  that  I  do  see  all  that  you  do  in 
the  picture  ;  but  it  seems  to  me  very  simply  painted,  and 
was,  no  doubt,  a  striking  likeness  of  Blanche  at  that  early 
age." 

"  So  it  was.  Lion  drew  the  first  sketch  from  life  with 
his  pencil  ;  and  when  he  saw  how  pleased  I  was  with  it — he 
was  so  good — he  put  it  on  canvas,  and  let  me  sit  by  him 
while  he  painted  it.  Then  he  took  it  away,  and  brought  it 
back  finished  and  framed  as  you  see,  last  May,  a  present  for 
mv  birtlidav." 


KENELM   CinLLIKGLY.  327 

"You  were  born  in  May — with  the  flowers." 

"The  best  of  all  the  flowers  are  born  before  May — 
violets." 

"  But  they  are  born  in  the  shade,  and  cling  to  it.  Surely, 
as  a  child  of  May,  you  love  the  sun  !  " 

"  I  love  the  sun — it  is  never  too  bright  nor  too  warm  for 
me.  But  I  don't  think  that,  though  born  in  May,  I  was 
born  in  sunlight.  I  feel  more  like  my  own  native  self  when  I 
creep  into  the  shade  and  sit  down  alone.     I  can  weep  then." 

As  she  thus  shyly  ended,  the  character  of  her  whole 
countenance  was  changed — its  infantine  mirthfulness  was 
gone  ;  a  grave,  thoughtful,  even  a  sad  expression  settled  on 
the  tender  eyes  and  the  tremulous  lips. 

Kenelm  was  so  touched  that  words  failed  him,  and  there 
was  silence  for  some  moments  between  the  two.  iVt  length 
Kenelm  said  slowly  : 

"  You  say  your  own  native  self.  Do  you  then  feel,  as  I 
often  do,  that  there  is  a  second,  possibly  a  native,  self,  deep 
hid  beneath  the  self — not  merely  wdiat  we  show  to  the  world 
in  common  (that  may  be  merely  a  mask) — but  the  self  that 
we  ordinarily  accept  even  when  in  solitude  as  our  own  ;  an 
inner  innermost  self  ;  oh,  so  different  and  so  rarely  com- 
ing forth  from  its  hiding-place  ;  asserting  its  right  of  sov- 
ereignty, and  putting  out  the  other  self,  as  the  sun  puts  out 
a  star  ?'" 

Had  Kenelm  thus  spoken  to  a  clever  man  of  the  world 
— to  a  Chillingly  Mivers — to  a  Chillingly  Gordon — they 
certainly  would  not  have  understood  him.  But  to  such 
men  he  never  would  have  thus  spoken.  He  had  a  vague 
hope  that  this  childlike  girl,  despite  so  much  of  childlike 
talk,  would  understand  him  ;  and  she  did,  at  once. 

Advancing  close  to  him,  again  laying  her  hand  on  his 
arm,  and  looking  up  towards  his  bended  face  with  startled 
wondering  eyes,  no  longer  sad,  yet  not  nurthful  : 

"How  true  !  You  have  felt  that  too  ?  Where  is  that  in- 
nermost self,  so  deep  down — so  deep  ;  yet  when  it  does 
come  forth,  so  much  higher — higher — immeasurably  higher 
than  one's  everyday  self?  It  does  not  tame  the  butterflies 
— -it  longs  to  get  to  the  stars.  And  then — and  then — ah, 
how  soon  it  fades  back  again  !  You  have  felt  that.  Does 
it  not  puzzle  you  ?" 

"  Very  much." 

"  Are  there  no  wise  books  about  it  that  help  to  ex- 
plain?" 


328  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

"No  wise  books  in  my  very  limited  reading  even  liint 
at  the  puzzle.  I  fancy  that  it  is  one  of  those  insoluble 
questions  that  rest  between  the  infant  and  his  Maker. 
Mind  and  soul  are  not  the  same  things,  and  what  you  and  I 
call  'wise  men  '  are  always  confounding  the  two " 

Fortunately  for  all  parties— especially  the  reader  ;  for 
Kenelm  had  here  got  on  the  back  of  one  of  his  most  cher- 
ished hobbies — the  distinction  between  psychology  and 
metaphysics — soul  and  mind  scientifically  or  logically  con- 
sidered—Mrs. Cameron  here  entered  the  room  and  asked 
him  how  he  liked  the  picture. 

"Very  much.  I  am  no  great  judge  of  the  art.  But  it 
pleased  me  at  once,  and,  now  that  Miss  Mordaunt  has  in- 
terpreted the  intention  of  the  painter,  I  admire  it  yet  more." 

"  Lily  chooses  to  interpret  his  intention  in  her  own  w-ay, 
and  insists  that  Blanche's  expression  of  countenance  con- 
veys an  idea  of  her  capacity  to  restrain  her  destructive  in- 
stinct and  be  taught  to  believe  that  it  is  wrong  to  kill  birds 
for  mere  sport.  For  food  she  need  not  kill  them,  seeing 
that  Lily  takes  care  that  she  has  plenty  to  eat.  But  I  don't 
think  Mr.  Melville  had  the  sliglitest  suspicion  that  he  had 
indicated  that  capacity  in  his  picture." 

"  He  must  have  done  so,  whether  he  suspected  it  or 
not,"  said  Lilv,  positivclv ;  "otherwise  he  would  not  be 
truthful." 

"  Why  not  trutliful?"  asked  Kenelm. 

"  Don't  you  see  ?  If  you  were  called  upon  to  describe 
truthfully  the  character  of  any  little  child,  would  you  only 
speak  of  such  naughty  impulses  as  all  children  have  in 
common,  and  not  even  hint  at  the  capacity  to  be  made 
better  ?  " 

"Admirably  put!"  said  Kenelm.  "There  is  no  doubt 
that  a  much  fiercer  animal  than  a  cat — a  tiger,  for  instance, 
or  a  conquering  hero — may  be  taught  to  live  on  the  kindest 
possible  terms  with  the  creatures  on  which  it  was  its  natural 
instinct  to  prey." 

"Yes  — yes  ;  hear  that,  aunty!  You  remember  the  Hap- 
py Family  that  we  saw,  eight  years  ago,  at  Moleswich  Fair, 
with  a  cat  not  half  so  nice  as  Blanche  allowing  a  mouse  to 
bite  lier  ear?  Well,  then,  would  Lion  not  have  been  shame- 
fully false  to  Blanche  if  Lion  had  not " 

Lily  paused  and  looked  half  shyly,  half  archlv,  at  Ken- 
elm, then  added,  in  slow,  deep-drawn  tones — "given  a 
glimpse  of  her  innermost  self  ?" 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  329 

"Innermost  self !"  repeated  Mrs.  Cameron,  perplexed, 
and  laughing  gently. 

Lily  stole  nearer  to  Kenehn,  and  whispered  : 

"  Is  not  one's  innermost  self  one's  best  self?" 

Kenelm  smiled  approvingly.  The  fairy  was  rapidly 
deepening  her  spell  upon  him.  If  Lily  had  been  his  sister, 
his  betrothed,  his  wife,  how  fondly  he  would  have  kissed 
her !  She  had  expressed  a  thought  over  which  he  had 
often  inaudibly  brooded,  and  she  liad  clothed  it  with  all  the 
charm  of  her  own  infantine  fancy  and  womanlike  tender- 
ness !  Goethe  has  said  somewhere,  or  is  reported  to  have 
said,  "There  is  something  in  every  man's  heart,  that,  if  you 
knew  it,  would  make  you  hate  him."  What  Goethe  said, 
still  more  what  Goethe  is  reported  to  have  said,  is  never  to 
be  taken  quite  literally.  No  comprehensive  genius — genius 
at  once  poet  and  thinker — ever  can  be  so  taken.  The  sun 
shines  on  a  dungliill.  But  the  sun  has  no  predilection  for 
a  dunghill.  It  only  comprehends  a  dunghill  as  it  does 
a  rose.  Still,  Kenelm  had  always  regarded  that  loose  ray 
from  Goethe's  prodigal  orb  with  an  abhorrence  most  un- 
philosophical  for  a  philosopher  so  young  as  generally  to 
take  upon  oath  any  words  of  so  great  a  master.  Kenelm 
thought  that  the  root  of  all  private  benevolence,  of  all  en- 
lightened advance  in  social  reform,  lay  in  the  adverse  theo- 
rem— that  in  every  man's  nature  there  lies  a  something 
that,  could  we  get  at  it,  cleanse  it,  polish  it,  render  it  visibly 
clear  to  our  eyes,  would  make  us  love  him.  And  in  this 
spontaneous,  uncultured  sympathy  with  the  result  of  so 
many  laborious  struggles  of  his  own  scholastic  intellect 
against  the  dogma  of  the  German  giant,  he  felt  as  if  he  had 
found  a  younger — true,  but,  oh,  how  much  more  subduing, 
because  so  much  younger — sister  of  his  own  man's  soul. 

Then  came,  so  strongly,  the  sense  of  her  sympathy  with 
his  own  strange  innermost  self  which  a  man  will  never  feel 
more  than  once  in  his  life  with  a  daughter  of  Eve,  that  he 
dared  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  He  somewhat  hurried 
his  leave-taking. 

Passing  in  the  rear  of  the  garden  towards  the  bridge 
which  led  to  his  lodging,  he  found  on  the  opposite  bank,  at 
the  other  end  of  the  bridge,  Mr.  Algernon  Sidney  Gale 
Jones,  peacefully  angling  for  trout. 

"Will  you  not  trv  the  stream  to-dav,  sir?  Take  my 
rod." 

Kenelm  remembered  that  Lilv  had  called  Isaak  Walton's 


330  KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY. 

book  "a  cruel  one,"  and,  sliaking  his  head  gently,  went  his 
way  into  the  house.  There  he  seated  himself  silently  by 
the  window,  and  looked  towards  the  grassy  lawn  and  the 
dipping  willows,  and  the  gleam  of  the  white  walls  through 
the  girdling  trees,  as  he  had  looked  the  eve  before. 

"Ah!"  he  murmured  at  last,  "if,  as  I  hold,  a  man  but 
tolerably  good  does  good  unconsciously  merely  by  the  act 
of  living — if  he  can  no  more  traverse  his  way  from  the  cra- 
dle to  the  grave,  without  letting  fall,  as  he  passes,  the  germs 
of  strength,  fertility,  and  beauty,  than  can  a  reckless  wind 
or  a  vagrant  bird,  which,  where  it  passes,  leaves  behind  it 
the  oak,  the  cornsheaf,  or  the  flower— ah,  if  that  be  so,  how 
tenfold  the  good  must  be,  if  the  man  find  the  gentler  and 
purer  duplicate  of  his  own  being  in  that  mysterious,  unde- 
finable  union  which  Shakespeares  and  day-laborers  equally 
agree  to  call  love  ;  which  Newton  never  recognizes,  and 
which  Descartes  (his  only  rival  in  the  realms  of  "thought  at 
once  severe  and  imaginative)  reduces  into  links  of  early 
association,  explaining  that  he  loved  women  who  squinted 
because,  when  he  was  a  boy,  a  girl  with  that  infirmity 
squinted  at  him  from  the  other  side  of  his  father's  garden- 
wall  !  Ah  !  be  tliis  union  between  man  and  woman  what  it 
may  ;  if  it  be  really  love — really  the  bond  which  embraces 
the  innermost  and  bettermost  self  of  both —how,  daily, 
hourly,  momently,  should  we  bless  God  for  having  made  it 
so  easy  to  be  happy  and  to  be  good ! " 


CHAPTER   VI. 


The  dinner-party  at  Mr.  Braeficld's  was  not  quite  so 
small  as  Kenelm  had  anticipated.  When  the  merchant 
heard  from  Ids  wife  that  Kenelm  was  coming,  he  thought  it 
would  be  but  civil  to  the  young  gentleman'to  invite  a  few 
other  persons  to  meet  him. 

"You  see,  my  dear,"  he  said  to  Elsie,  "Mrs.  Cameron 
is  a  very  good,  simple  sort  of  woman,  but  not  particularly 
amusing  ;  and  Lily,  though  a  pretty  girl,  is  so  exceedingly 
childish.  We  owe  much,"  my  sweet  Elsie,  to  this  Mr.  Chil- 
lingly " — here  there  was  a  deep  tone  of  feeling  in  his  voice 
and  look — "and  we  must  make  it  as  pleasant  for  him  as  we 
can.      I  will  bring  down  my  friend  Sir  Thomas,  and  you  ask 


KEN  ELM    CHILLINGLY.  33; 

Mr.  Emlyn  and  his  wife.  Sir  Thomas  is  a  very  sensible* 
man,  and  Emlyn  a  very  learned  one.  So  Mr.  Chillingly 
will  find  people  worth  talking  to.  By-the-by,  when  I  go  to 
town  I  will  send  down  a  haunch  of  venison  from  Groves'." 

So  when  Kenelm  arrived,  a  little  before  six  o'clock,  he 
found  in  the  drawing-room  the  Rev.  Charles  Emlyn,  vicar 
of  Moleswich  Proper,  with  his  spouse,  and  a  portly  middle^ 
aged  man,  to  whom,  as  Sir  Thomas  Pratt,  Kenelm  was  in- 
troduced. Sir  Thomas  was  an  eminent  city  banker.  The 
ceremonies  of  introduction  over,  Kenelm  stole  to  Elsie's  side. 

"  I  thought  I  was  to  meet  Mrs.  Cameron.  I  don't  see 
her." 

"She  will  be  here  presently.  It  looks  as  if  it  might  rain, 
and  I  have  sent  the  carriage  for  her  and  Lily.  Ah,  here 
they  are  !  " 

Mrs.  Cameron  entered,  clothed  in  black  silk.  She  al- 
ways wore  black  ;  and  behind  her  came  Lily,  in  the  spotless 
color  that  became  her  name  ;  no  ornament,  save  a  slender 
gold  chain  to  which  was  appended  a  simple  locket,  and  a 
single  blush-rose  in  her  hair.  She  looked  wonderfully 
lovely  ;  and  Avith  that  loveliness  there  was  a  certain  nameles? 
air  of  distinction,  possibly  owing  to  delicacy  of  form  and 
coloring ;  possibly  to  a  certain  grace  of  carriage,  which  was 
not  Avithout  a  something  of  pride. 

Mr.  Braeficld,  who  was  a  very  punctual  man,  made  a 
sign  to  his  servant,  and  in  another  moment  or  so  dinnerwas 
announced.  Sir  Thomas,  of  course,  took  in  the  hostess  ;  Mr. 
Braefield,  the  vicar's  wife  (she  was  a  dean's  daughter)  ; 
Kenelm,  Mrs.  Cameron  ;  and  the  vicar,  Lily. 

On  seating  themselves  at  the  table,  Kenelm  was  on  the 
left  hand,  next  to  the  hostess,  and  separated  from  Lily  by 
Mrs.  Cameron  and  Mr.  Emlyn  ;  and  when  the  vicar  had 
said  grace,  Lily  glanced  behind  his  back  and  her  aunt's  at 
Kenelm  (who  did  the  same  thing),  making  at  him  what  the 
French  call  a  inouc.  The  pledge  to  her  had  been  broken. 
She  was  between  two  men  very  much  grown  up — the  vicar 
and  the  host.  Kenelm  returned  the  motie  with  a  mournful 
smile  and  an  involuntary  shrug. 

All  were  silent  till,  after  his  soup  and  his  first  glass  of 
sherry.  Sir  Thomas  began  : 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Chillingly,  we  have  met  before,  though  I 
had  not  tlie  honor  then  of  making  your  acquaintance."  Sir 
Thomas  paused  before  he  added,  "  Not  long  ago  ;  the  last 
State  ball  at  Buckingham  Palace." 


332  KENELM   CHILLrNGLY. 

Kenelm  bent  his  head  acquiescingly.  He  had  been  at  that 
ball. 

"  You  were  talking  with  a  very  charming  woman — a  friend 
of  mine — Lady  Glcnalvon." 

(Sir  Thomas  was  Lady  Glenalvon's  banker.) 

'•I  remember  perfectly,"  said  Kenelm.  "We  were 
seated  in  the  picture-gallery.  You  came  to  speak  to  Lady 
Glenalvon,  and  I  yielded  to  you  my  place  on  the  settee." 

"  C)uite  true:  and  I  think  you  joined  a  young  lady — 
very  handsome — the  great  heiress,  Miss  Travers." 

Kenelm  again  bowed,  and,  turning  away  as  politely  as 
he  could,  addressed  himself  to  Mrs.  Cameron.  Sir  Thomas, 
satisfied  that  he  had  impressed  on  his  audience  the  facts  of 
his  friendship  with  Lady  Glenalvon  and  his  attendance  at 
the  court  ball,  now  directed  his  conversational  powers  to- 
wards the  vicar,  who,  utterly  foiled  in  the  attempt  to  draw  out 
Lily,  met  the  baronet's  advances  with  the  ardor  of  a  talker 
too  long  suppressed.  Kenelm  continued,  luimolested,  to 
ripen  his  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Cameron.  She  did  not, 
however,  seem  to  lend  a  very  attentive  ear  to  his  prelimi- 
nary commonjilace  remarks  about  scenery  or  weather,  but 
at  his  first  pause  said  : 

"  Sir  Thomas  spoke  about  a  Miss  Travers  :  is  she  related 
to  a  gentleman  who  was  once  in  the  Guards — Leopold 
Travers  ?  " 

"  She  is  his  daughter.  Did  you  ever  know  Leopold 
Travers  ?" 

"  I  have  heard  him  mentioned  by  friends  of  mine  long  ago 
— long  ago,"  replied  Mrs.  Cameron,  with  a  sort  of  weary  lan- 
guor, not  imwonted,  in  her  voice  and  manner,  and  then,  as 
if  dismissing  the  bygone  reminiscence  from  her  thoughts, 
changed  the  subject. 

''  Lily  tells  me,  Mr.  Chillingly,  that  you  said  you  were 
staying  at  Mr.  Jones's,  Cromwell  Lodge.  I  hope  you  are 
made  comfortable  there." 

"Very.     The  situation  is  singularly  pleasant." 

"Yes,  it  is  considered  the  prettiest  spot  on  the  brook- 
side,  and  used  to  be  a  favorite  resort  for  anglers  ;  but  the 
trout,  I  believe,  are  grown  scarce  :  at  least,  now  that  the  fish- 
ing in  the  Thames  is  improved,  poor  Mr.  Jones  complains 
that  his  old  lodgers  desert  him.  Of  course  you  took  the 
rooms  for  the  sake  of  the  fishing.  I  hope  the  sport  may  be 
better  than  it  is  said  to  be." 

"  It  is  of  little  consequence  to  me  ;  I  do  not  care  much 


KENELM    CHILLINGLY.  333 

about  fishing  ;  and  since  Miss  Mordaunt  calls  the  book  which 
first  enticed  me  to  take  to  it  *a  cruel  one,'  I  feel  as  if  the 
trout  had  become  as  sacred  as  crocodiles  were  to  the  ancient 
Egyptians." 

"Lily  is  a  foolish  child  on  sucli  matters.  She  cannot 
bear  the  thought  of  giving  pain  to  any  dumb  creature  ;  and 
just  before  our  garden  there  are  a  few  trout  which  she  has 
tamed.  They  feed  out  of  her  hand  ;  she  is  always  afraid 
they  will  wander  away  and  get  caught." 

"  But  Mr.  Melville  is  an  angler  ?  " 

"  Several  years  ago  lie  would  sometimes  pretend  to  fish, 
but  I  believe  it  was  rather  an  excuse  for  lying  on  the  grass 
and  reading  'the  cruel  book,'  or  perhaps,  rather,  for  sketch- 
ing. But  now  he  is  seldom  here  till  autumn,  when  it  grows 
too  cold  for  such  amusement." 

Here  Sir  Thomas's  voice  was  so  loudly  raised  that  it 
stopped  the  conversation  between  Kenelm  and  Mrs.  Cam- 
eron. He  had  got  into  some  question  of  politics  on  which 
he  and  the  vicar  did  not  agree,  and  the  discussion  threatened 
to  become  warm,  Avhen  Mrs.  Braefield,  with  a  woman's  true 
tact,  broached  a  new  topic,  in  which  Sir  Thomas  was  imme- 
diately interested,  relating  to  the  construction  of  a  conser- 
vatory for  orchids  that  he  meditated  adding  to  his  country- 
house,  and  in  which  frequent  appeal  was  made  to  Mrs. 
Cameron,  who  was  considered  an  accomplished  florist,  and 
who  seemed  at  some  time  or  other  in  her  life  to  have  ac- 
quired a  very  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  costly  family 
of  orchids. 

When  the  ladies  retired,  Kenelm  found  himself  seated 
next  to  Mr.  Emlyn,  who  astounded  him  by  a  complimentary 
quotation  frOm  one  of  his  own  Latin  prize  poems  at  the  uni- 
versity, hoped  he  would  make  some  stay  at  Moleswich,  told 
him  of  the  principal  places  in  the  neighborhood  worth  vis- 
iting, and  offered  him  the  run  of  his  library,  which  he  flat- 
tered himself  was  rather  rich,  both  in  the  best  editions  of 
Greek  and  Latin  classics  and  in  early  English  literature. 
Kenelm  was  much  pleased  with  the  scholarly  vicar,  especially 
when  Mr.  Emlyn  began  to  speak  about  Mrs.  Cameron  and 
Lily.  Of  the  first  he  said,  "  She  is  one  of  those  women  in 
whom  Quiet  is  so  predominant  that  it  is  long  before  one 
can  know  what  imdercurrents  of  good  feeling  flow  beneath 
the  unruffled  surface.  I  wish,  however,  she  was  a  little  more 
active  in  the  management  and  education  of  her  niece — a  girl 
in  whom  I  feel  a  very  anxious  interest,  and  whom  I  doubt 


334  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

if  Mrs.  Cameron  understands.  Perhaps,  liowever,  only  a 
poet,  and  a  very  peculiar  sort  of  poet,  can  understand  her  : 
Lily  Mordaunt  is  herself  a  poem." 

"  I  like  your  definition  of  her,"  said  Kenehn.  "  There  is 
certainly  something  about  her  which  differs  much  from  the 
prose  of  common  life." 

"You  probably  know  Wordsworth's  lines: 

'  .  .    .  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 

Wliere  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 

And  beauty,  born  of  murmuring  sound, 

Shall  pass  into    her  face.' 

They  are  lines  that  many  critics  have  found  unintelligible  ; 
but  Lily  seems  like  the  living  key  to  them." 

Kenelm's  dark  face  lighted  up,  but  he  made  no  answer. 

"Only,"  continued  Mr.  Emlyn,  "  how  a  girl  of  that  fort, 
left  wholly  to  herself,  untrained,  undisciplined,  is  to  grow 
up  into  the  practical  uses  of  womanhood,  is  a  c^uestion  that 
perplexes  and  saddens  me." 

"  Any  more  wine  ? "  asked  the  host,  closing  a  conversation 
on  commercial  matters  with  Sir  Thomas.  "  No  ? — shall  wc 
join  the  ladies  ?" 


CHAPTER  VII. 


The  drawing-room  was  deserted  ;  the  ladies  were  in  the 
garden.  As  Kenelm  and  Mr.  Emlyn  walked  side  by  side 
towards  the  group  (Sir  Thomas  and  Mr.  Braeficld  following 
at  a  little  distance),  the  former  asked,  somewhat  abruptly, 
"  What  sort  of  man  is  Miss  Cameron's  guardian,  Mr.  Mel- 
ville ?  " 

"  I  can  scarcely  answer  that  question.  I  see  little  of  him 
when  he  comes  here.  Eormerl}'  he  used  to  run  down  pretty 
often  with  a  harum-scarum  set  of  young  fellows,  quartered 
at  Cromwell  Lodi^e — Grasmere  had  no  accommodation  for 
them — students  in  the  Academy,  I  suppose.  For  some  years 
he  has  not  brouglit  those  persons,  and  when  he  does  come 
himself  it  is  but  for  a  few  days.  lie  has  the  reputation  of 
being  very  wild." 

Further  conversation  was  here  stopped.  The  two  men, 
while  they  thus  talked,  had  been  diverging  from  the  straight 


K'ENELM  CHILLINGLY.  335 

way  across  the  lawn  towards  the  ladies,  turning  into  seques- 
tered paths  through  the  shrubbery  ;  now  they  emerged  into 
the  open  sward,  just  before  a  table  on  which  coftee  was 
served,  and  round  which  all  the  rest  of  the  party  were 
gathered. 

"  I  hope,  Mr.  Emlyn,"  said  Elsie's  cheery  voice,  "that 
you  have  dissuaded  Mr.  Chillingly  from  turning  papist.  I 
am  sure  you  have  taken  time  enough  to  do  so." 

Mr.  Emlyn,  protestant  every  inch  of  him,  slightly  recoiled 

from  Kenelm's  side.     "  Do  vou  meditate  turnincr "     He 

could  not  conclude  the  sentence. 

"  Be  not  alarmed,  my  dear  sir.  I  did  but  own  to  Mr. 
Braefield  that  I  had  paid  a  visit  to  Oxford  in  order  to  confer 
with  a  learned  man  on  a  question  that  puzzled  me,  and  as 
abstract  as  that  feminine  pastime,  theology,  is  nowadays.  I 
cannot  convince  Mrs.  Braefield  that  Oxford  admits  other 
puzzles  in  life  than  those  which  amuse  the  ladies."  Here 
Kenelm  dropped  into  a  chair  by  the  side  of  Lily. 

Lily  half  turned  her  back  to  him. 

"  Have  I  offended  again  ?" 

Lily  shrugged  her  shoulders  slightly  and  would  not  an- 
swer. 

"I  suspect,  Miss  Mordaunt,  that  among  your  good  qual- 
ities nature  has  omitted  one  ;  the  bcttermost  self  within  you 
should  I'eplace  it." 

Lily  here  abruptly  turned  to  him  her  front  face — the 
light  of  the  skies  was  becoming  dim,  but  the  evening  star 
shone  upon  it. 

"  How  !  what  do  you  mean?" 

"  Am  I  to  answer  politely  or  truthfully  ? " 

''Truthfully!  Oh,  truthfully!  What  is  life  without 
truth  ? " 

"Even  though  one  believes  in  fairies?" 

"  Fairies  are  truthful,  in  a  certain  way.  But  you  are  not 
truthful.     You  were  not  thinking  of  fairies  when  you " 

"  When  I  what  ?  " 

"  Found  fault  with  me  !  " 

"  I  am  not  sure  of  that.  But  I  will  translate  to  you  my 
thoughts,  so  far  as  I  can  read  them  myself,  and  to  do  so  I 
will  resort  to  the  fairies.  Let  us  suppose  that  a  fairy  has 
placed  her  changeling  into  the  cradle  of  a  mortal  ;  that  into 
the  cradle  she  drops  all  manner  of  fairy  gifts,  which  are  not 
bestowed  on  mere  mortals  ;  but  that  one  mortal  attribute  she 
forgets.     The  changeling  grows  up,  she  charms  those  around 


OJ 


36  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 


her  ;  they  humor,  and  pet,  and  spoil  her.  But  there  arises 
a  moment  in  which  the  omission  of  the  one  mortal  gift  is 
feh  by  her  admirers  and  friends.     Guess  what  that  is." 

Lily  pondered.  "  I  see  what  you  mean  ;  the  reverse  of 
truthfulness,  politeness." 

"  No,  not  exactly  that,  though  politeness  slides  into  it  un- 
awares ;  it  is  a  very  humble  quality,  a  very  unpoetic  quality  ; 
a  quality  that  many  dull  people  possess  ;  and  yet  without  it 
no  fairy  can  fascinate  mortals,  when  on  the  face  of  the  fairy 
settles  the  first  wrinkle.     Can  you  not  guess  it  now  ?  " 

"No  ;  you  vex  me,  you  provoke  me  ;"  and  Lily  stamped 
her  foot  petulantly,  as  in  Kenelm's  presence  she  had  stamped 
it  once  before.     "  Speak  plainly,  I  insist." 

"  Miss  Mordaunt,  excuse  me,  I  dare  not,"  said  Kenelm, 
rising  with  the  sort  of  bow  one  makes  to  the  Queen  ;  arxd  he 
crossed  over  to  Mrs.  Braefield. 

Lily  remained,  still  pouting  fiercely. 

Sir  Thomas  took  the  chair  Kenelm  had  vacated. 


CHAPTER   Vill. 


The  hour  for  parting  came.  Of  all  the  guests,  Sir  Thomas 
alone  stayed  at  the  house  a  guest  for  the  night.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Emlyn  had  their  own  carriage.  Mrs.  Braeficld's  car- 
riage came  to  the  door  for  Mrs.  Cameron  and  Lily. 

Said  Lily,  impatiently  and  discourteously,  "Who  would 
not  ratlier  walk  on  such  a  night?"  and  she  whispered  to 
her  aunt. 

Mrs.  Cameron,  listening  to  the  whisper,  and  obedient  to 
every  whim  of  Lily's,  said,  "  You  are  too  considerate,  dear 
Mrs.  Braefield. "  Lily  prefers  walking  home  ;  there  is  no 
chance  of  rain  now." 

Kenelm  followed  the  steps  of  the  aunt  and  niece,  and 
soon  overtook  them  on  the  brookside. 

"A  charming  night,  Mr.  Chillingly,"  said  Mrs.  Cameron. 

"An  English  summer  night  ;  nothing  like  it  in  such  parts 
of  the  world  as  I  have  visited.  But,  alas  !  of  English  sum- 
mer nights  there  arc  but  few." 

"You  have  travelled  much  abroad?" 

"Much — no.  a  little  ;  chiefly  on  foot  " 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  337 

Lily  hitherto  had  not  said  a  word,  and  had  been  walking 
with  downcast  head.  Now  she  looked  up,  and  said,  in  the 
mildest  and  most  conciliatory  of  human  voices  : 

"  You  have  been  abroad,"  then,  with  an  acquiescence  in 
the  manners  of  the  world  which  to  him  she  had  never  yet 
manifested,  she  added  his  name,  "Mr.  Chillingly,"  and  went 
on,  more  familiarly.  "  What  a  breadth  of  meaning  the  word 
'abroad'  conveys  !  Away,  afar  from  one's  self,  from  one's 
everyday  life.  How  I  envy  you  !  you  have  been  abroad  :  so 
has  Lion  " — (Here  drawing  herself  up) — "  I  mean  my  guard- 
ian, Mr.  Melville." 

"  Certainly,  I  have  been  abroad  ;  but  afar  from  myself — 
never.  It  is  an  old  saying — all  old  sayings  are  true,  most 
new  sayings  are  false — a  man  carries  his  native  soil  at  the 
sole  of  his  foot." 

Here  the  path  somewhat  narrowed.  Mrs.  Cameron  went 
on  first,  Kenelm  and  Lily  behind  ;  she,  of  course,  on  the  dry 
path,  he  on  the  dewy  grass. 

She  stopped  him.  "You  are  walking  in  the  wet,  and 
with  those  thin  shoes."  Lily  moved  instinctively  away  from 
the  dry  path. 

Homely  though  that  speech  of  Lily's  be,  and  absurd  as 
said  by  a  fragile  girl  to  a  gladiator  like  Kenelm,  it  lit  up  a 
whole  world  of  womanhood — it  sliowed  all  that  undiscover- 
able  land  which  was  hidden  to  the  learned  Mr.  Emlyn,  all 
that  land  which  an  uncomprehended  girl  seizes  and  reigns 
over  when  she  becomes  wife  and  mother. 

At  that  homely  speech,  and  that  impulsive  movement, 
Kenelm  halted,  in  a  sort  of  dreaming  maze.  He  turned 
timidly — "  Can  you  forgive  me  for  my  rude  words  ?  I  {re- 
sumed to  find  fault  with  you." 

"And  so  justly.  I  have  been  thinking  overall  you  said, 
and  I  feel  you  were  so  right  ;  only  I  still  do  not  quite  under- 
stand what  you  meant  by  the  qualitv  for  mortals  which  the 
fairy  did  not  give  to  her  changeling." 

"  If  I  did  not  dare  say  it  before,  I  should  still  less  dare  to 
say  it  now." 

"  Do."  There  was  no  longer  the  stamp  of  the  foot,  no 
longer  the  flash  from  her  eyes,  no  longer  the  wulfuhiess 
which  said,  "  I  insist ;" — "  Do,"  soothingly,  sweetly,  implor- 
ingly. 

Thus  pushed  to  it,  Kenelm  plucked  up  courage,  and,  not 
trusting  himself  to  look  at  Lily,  answered  brusquely  : 

"  The  quality  desirable  for  men,  but  more  essential  to 


338  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

women  in  proportion  as  they  are  fairy-like,  though  the  tritest 
thing  possible,  is  good  temper." 

Lily  made  a  sudden  bound  from  his  side,  and  joined  her 
aunt,  walking  through  the  wet  grass. 

When  they  reached  the  garden-gate,  Kenelm  advanced 
and  opened  it.  Lily  passed  him  by  haughtily  ;  they  gained 
the  cottage-door. 

"  I  don't  ask  you  in  at  this  hour,"  said  Mrs.  Cameron. 
"  It  would  be  but  a  false  compliment." 

Kenelm  bowed  and  retreated.  Lily  left  her  aunt's  side, 
and  came  towards  him,  extending  her  hand. 

"  I  shall  consider  your  words,  Mr.  Chillingly,"  she  said, 
with  a  strangely  majestic  air.  "At  present  I  think  you  are 
not  right.  I  am  not  ill-tempered  ;  but " — here  she  paused, 
and  then  added,  with  a  loftiness  of  mien  which,  had  she  not 
been  so  exquisitely  pretty,  would  have  been  rudeness — "  in 
any  case  I  forgive  you." 


1 


CHAPTER   IX. 


There  were  a  good  many  pretty  villas  in  the  outskirts  of 
Moleswich,  and  the  owners  of  them  were  generally  well  off ; 
and  yet  there  was  little  of  what  is  called  visiting  society — 
owing,  perhaps,  to  the  fact  that,  there  not  being  among 
these  proprietors  any  persons  belonging  to  what  is  com- 
monly called  "the  aristocratic  class,"  there  was  a  vast  deal 

of  aristocratic  pretension.     The  family  of  Mr.   A ,  who 

had  enriched  himself  as  a  stock-jobber,  turned  up  its  nose  at 

the  family  of  Mr.  B ,  who  liad  enriched  himself  still  more 

as  a  linen-draper,  while  the  family  of  Mr.  li showed  a 

very  cold  shoulder  to  the  family  of  Mr.  C ,  who  had*  be- 
come richer  than  either  of  them  as  a  pawnbroker,  and  whose 
wife  wore  diamonds,  but  dropped  her  h's.  England  would 
be  a  community  so  aristocratic  that  there  would  be  no  liv- 
ing in  it,  if  one  could  exterminate  what  is  now  called  "aris- 
tocracy." The  Bracficlds  were  the  only  persons  who  really 
drew  together  the  antagonistic  atoms  of  the  Moleswich 
society,  partly  because  they  were  acknowledged  to  be  the 
first  persons  there,  in  right  not  only  of  old  settlement  (the 
Braefields  had  held  Braefieldville  for  four  generations),  but 
of  the  wealth  derived  from  those  departments  of  commer' 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  339 

cial  enterprise  which  are  recognized  as  the  highest,  and  of 
an  establishment  considered  to  be  the  most  elegant  in  the 
neighborhood  ;  principally  because  Elsie,  while  exceedingly 
■genial  and  cheerful  in  temper,  had  a  certain  power  of  will 
(as  her  runaway  folly  had  manifested),  and  when  she  got 
people  together  compelled  them  to  be  civil  to  each  other. 
She  had  commenced  this  gracious  career  by  inaugurating 
children's  parties,  and  when  the  children  became  friends  the 
parents  necessarily  grew  closer  together.  Still  her  task  had 
only  recently  begun,  and  its  effects  were  not  in  full  opera- 
tion. Thus,  though  it  became  known  at  Moleswich  that  a 
young  gentleman,  the  heir  to  a  baronetcy  and  a  high  estate, 
was  sojourning  at  Cromwell  Lodge,  no  overtures  Avere  made 
to  him  on  the  part  of  the  A's,  B's,  and  C's.  The  vicar,  who 
called  on  Kenelm  the  day  after  the  dinner  at  Braefieldville, 
explained  to  him  the  social  conditions  of  the  place.  "  You 
vmderstand,"  said  he,  "that  it  will  be  from  no  Avant  of  cour- 
tesy on  the  part  of  my  neighbors  if  they  do  not  offer  you 
any  relief  from  the  pleasures  of  solitude.  It  will  be  simply 
because  they  are  shy,  not  because  they  are  uncivil.  And  it 
is  this  consideration  that  makes  me,  at  the  risk  of  seeming 
too  forward,  entreat  you  to  look  into  the  vicarage  any  morn- 
ing or  evening  on  which  you  feel  tired  of  your  own  com- 
pany. Suppose  you  drink  tea  with  us  this  evening — you 
will  find  a  young  lady  whose  heart  you  have  already  won." 

"Whose  heart  I  have  won  !"  faltered  Kenelm,  and  the 
warm  blood  rushed  to  his  cheek. 

"  But,"  continued  the  vicar,  smiling,  "she  has  no  matri- 
monial designs  on  you  at  present.  She  is  only  twelve  years 
old — my  little  girl  Clemmy." 

"  Clemmy  ! — She  is  your  daughter.  I  did  not  know  that. 
I  very  gratefully  accept  your  invitation." 

"I  must  not  keep  you  longer  from  your  amusement. 
The'  sky  is  just  clouded  enough  for  sport.  What  fly  do  you 
use?" 

"To  say  truth,  I  doubt  if  the  stream  has  much  to  tempt 
me  in  the  way  of  its  trout,  and  I  prefer  rambling  about  the 
lanes  and  by-paths  to 

'The  noiseless  angler's  solitary  stand.' 

I  am  an  indefatigable  walker,  and  the  home  scenery  round 
the  place  has  many  charms  for  me.  Besides,"  added  Ken- 
elm, feeling  conscious  that  he  ought  to  find  some  more  plana 


340  KENELM  CHILLIXGLY. 

ible  excuse  than  the  charms  of  home  scenery  for  locating 
himself  long  in  Cromwell  Lodge — "  besides,  I  intend  to  de- 
vote myself  a  good  deal  to  reading.  I  have  been  very  idle 
of  late,  and  the  solitude  of  this  place  must  be  favorable  to 
study." 

"  Vou  are  not  intended,  I  presume,  for  any  of  the  learned 
professions  ? " 

"The  learned  professions,"  replied  Kenclm,  "is  an  invidi- 
ous form  of  speech  that  we  are  doing  our  best  to  eradicate 
from  the  language.  All  professions  nowadays  are  to  have 
much  about  the  same  amount  of  learning.  The  learning  of 
the  military  profession  is  to  be  levelled  upwards— the  learn- 
ins:  of  the  scholastic  to  be  levelled  downwards.  Cabinet 
ministers  sneer  at  the  uses  of  Greek  and  Latin.  And  even 
such  masculine  studies  as  Law  and  Medicine  are  to  be 
adapted  to  the  measurements  of  taste  and  propriety  in  col- 
leges for  young  ladies.  No,  I  am  not  intended  for  any  pro- 
fession ;  but  still  an  ignorant  man  like  myself  may  not  be 
the  worse  for  a  little  book-reading  now  and  then." 

"You  seem  to  be  badly  provided  with  books  here,"  said 
the  vicar,  glancing  round  the  room,  in  which,  on  a  table  in 
the  corner,  lay  half  a  dozen  old-l(Joking  volumes,  evidently 
belonging  not  to  the  lodger  but  the  landlord.  "  But,  as  I 
before  said,  my  library  is  at  your  service.  What  branch  of 
reading  do  you  prefer  ?" 

Kenelm  was,  and  looked,  puzzled.  But  after  a  pause  he 
answered  : 

"  The  more  remote  it  be  from  the  present  day,  the  better 
for  me.  Vou  said  your  collection  was  rich  in  mediaeval  liter- 
ature. But  the  Middle  Ages  are  so  copied  by  the  modern 
Goths,  that  I  might  as  well  read  translations  of  Chaucer,  or 
take  lodgings  in  Wardour  Street.  If  you  have  any  books 
about  the  manners  and  habits  of  those  who,  according  to 
the  newest  idea  in  science,  were  our  semi-human  progeni- 
tors in  the  transition  state  between  a  marine  animal  and  a 
gorilla,  I  should  be  very  much  edified  by  the  loan." 

"Alas,"  said  Mr.  Emlyn,  laughing,  "  no  such  books  have 
been  left  to  us." 

"  No  such  books  ?  You  must  be  mistaken.  There  must 
be  plenty  of  them  somewhere.  I  grant  all  the  wonderful 
powers  of  invention  bestowed  on  the  creators  of  poetic  ro- 
mance ;  still,  not  the  sovereign  masters  in  that  realm  of 
literature — not  Scott,  not  Cervantes,  not  Goethe,  not  even 
Shakspeare — could  have  presumed  to  rebuild  the  past  with- 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  341 

out  such  materials  as  they  found  in  the  books  that  record  it. 
And  though  I,  no  less  cheerfully,  grant  that  we  have  now 
living  among  us  a  creator  of  poetic  romance  immeasurably 
more  inventive  than  they — appealing  to  our  credulity  in  por- 
tents the  most  monstrous,  with  a  charm  of  style  the  most 
conversationally  familiar — still  I  cannot  conceive  that  even 
that  unrivalled  romance-writer  can  so  bewitch  our  under- 
standings as  to  make  us  believe  that,  if  Miss  Mordaunt's 
cat  dislikes  to  wet  her  feet,  it  is  probably  because  in  the  pre- 
historic age  her  ancestors  lived  in  the  dry  country  of  Egypt  ; 
or  that  when  some  lofty  orator,  a  Pitt  or  a  Gladstone,  rebuts 
with  a  polished  smile  which  reveals  his  canine  teeth  the  rude 
assault  of  an  opponent,  he  betrays  his  descent  from  a  'semi- 
human  progenitor  '  who  was  accustomed  to  snap  at  his  en- 
emy. Surely — surely  there  must  be  some  books  still  extant 
written  by  philosophers  before  the  birth  of  Adam,  in  which 
there  is  authority,  even  though  but  in  mythic  fable,  for 
such  poetic  inventions.  Surely — surely  some  early  chroni- 
clers must  depose  that  they  saw,  saw  with  their  own  eyes, 
the  great  gorillas  who  scratched  off  their  hairy  coverings  to 
please  the  eyes  of  the  young  ladies  of  their  species,  and  that 
they  noted  the  gradual  metamorphosis  of  one  animal  into 
another.  For,  if  vou  tell  me  that  this  illustrious  romance- 
writer  is  but  a  cautious  man  of  science,  and  that  we  must 
accept  his  inventions  according  to  the  sober  laws  of  evidence 
and  fact,  there  is  not  the  most  incredible  ghost-story  which 
does  not  better  satisfy  the  common  sense  of  a  skeptic.  How- 
ever, if  you  have  no  such  books,  lend  me  the  most  unphilo- 
sophical  you  possess — on  magic,  for  instance— the  philoso- 
pher's stone " 

"  I  have  some  of  them,"  said  the  vicar,  laughing  ;  **you 
shall  choose  for  yourself." 

"  If  you  are  going  homeward,  let  me  accompany  you 
part  of  the  way — I  don't  yet  know  where  the  church  and 
the  vicarage  are,  and  I  ought  to  know  before  I  come  in  the 
evening." 

Kenelm  and  the  vicar  walked  side  by  side,  very  sociably, 
across  the  bridge  and  on  the  side  of  the  rivulet  on  which 
stood  Mrs.  Cameron's  cottage.  As  they  skirted  the  garden 
pale  at  the  rear  of  the  cottage,  Kenelm  suddenly  stopped 
in  the  middle  of  some  sentence  which  had  interested  Mr. 
Emlyn,  and  as  suddenly  arrested  his  steps  on  the  turf  that 
bordered  the  lane.  A  little  before  him  stood  an  old  peasant 
woman,  with  whom  Lily,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  garden 


342  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

pale,  was  conversing.  Mr.  Emlyn  did  not  at  first  see  what 
Kenelm  saw  ;  turning  round  rather  to  gaze  on  his  compan- 
ion, surprised  by  his  abrupt  lialt  and  silence.  The  girl  put 
a  small  basket  into  the  old  woman's  hand,  wlio  then  dropped 
a  low  curtsy,  and  uttered  low  a  "  God  bless  you."  Low 
though  it  was,  Kenelm  overheard  it,  and  said  abstractedly 
to  Mr.  Emlyn,  "Is  there  a  greater  link  between  this  life  and 
the  next  than  God's  blessing  on  the  young,  breathed  from 
the  lips  of  the  old  ?" 


CHAPTER  X. 

**  And  how  is  your  good  man,  Mrs.  Haley  ?  "  said  the 
vicar,  wlio  had  now  readied  the  spot  on  which  the  old 
woman  stood — with  Lily's  fair  face  still  bended  down  to 
her — while  Kenelm  slowly  followed  him. 

"Thank  you  kindlv,  sir,  he  is  better — out  of  his  bed 
now.     The  young  lady  has  done  him  a  power  of  good " 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Lily,  coloring.  "  Make  haste  home  now  ; 
you  must  not  keep  liim  waiting  for  his  dinner." 

The  old  woman  again  curtsied,  and  went  off  at  a  brisk 
pace. 

"  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Chillingly,"  said  Mr.  Emlyn,  "that 
Miss  Mordaunt  is  the  best  doctor  in  the  j)lace  ?  Tlunagh  if 
she  goes  on  making  so  many  cures  she  will  lind  the  number 
of  her  patients  rather  burdensome." 

"  It  was  only  the  other  day,"  said  Lily,  "  that  you  scolded 
me  for  the  best  cure  I  have  yet  made." 

"I? — Oh!  I  remember;  you  led  that  silly  child  Madge 
to  believe  there  was  a  fairy  charm  in  the  arrowroot  you 
sent  her.     Own  you  deserved  a  scolding  there." 

"No,  I  did  not.  I  dress  the  arrowroot,  and  am  I  not 
Fairy  ?  I  have  just  got  such  a  pretty  note  from  Clemmy, 
Mr.  Emlyn,  asking  me  to  come  up  this  evening  and  see  her 
new  magic-lantern.  Will  you  tell  her  to  expect  me  ?  And 
— mind — no  scolding." 

"And  all  magic  f"  said  Emlyn  ;  "be  it  so." 

Lily  and  Kenelm  had  not  hitherto  exchanged  a  word. 
She  had  replied  with  a  grave  inclination  of  her  head  to  his 
silent  bow.  But  now  she  turned  to  him  shyly  and  said,  "  I 
suppose  you  have  been  fishing  all  the  morning?" 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  343 

"  No  ;  the  fishes  hereabout  are  under  the  protection  of 
a  Fairy — whom  I  dare  not  displease." 

Lily's  face  brightened,  and  she  extended  her  hand  to 
him  over  the  palings.  "  Good-day  ;  I  hear  aunty's  voice — 
those  dreadful  French  verbs  !  " 

She  disappeared  among  the  shrubs,  amid  which  they 
heard  the  trill  of  her  fresh  young  voice  singing  to  herself. 

"  That  child  has  a  heart  of  gold,"  said  Mr.  Emlyn,  as  the 
two  men  walked  on.  "  I  did  not  exaggerate  when  I  said 
she  was  the  best  doctor  in  the  place.  I  believe  the  poor 
really  do  believe  that  she  is  a  Fairy.  Of  course  we  send 
from  the  vicarage  to  our  ailing  parishioners  who  require  it 
food  and  wine  ;  but  it  never  seems  to  do  them  the  good  that 
her  little  dishes  made  by  her  own  tiny  hands  do  ;  and  I 
don't  know  if  you  noticed  the  basket  that  old  woman  took 
away — Miss  Lily  taught  Will  Somers  to  make  the  prettiest 
little  baskets  ;  and  she  puts  her  jellies  or  other  savories  into 
dainty  porcelain  gallipots  nicely  fitting  into  the  baskets, 
which  she  trims  with  ribbons.  It  is  the  look  of  the  thing 
that  tempts  the  appetite  of  the  invalids,  and  certainly  the 
child  may  well  be  called  Fairy  at  present ;  but  I  wish  Miss 
Cameron  would  attend  a  little  more  strictly  to  her  educa- 
tion.    She  can't  be  a  Fairy  forever." 

Kenelm  sighed,  but  made  no  answer. 

Mr.  Emlyn  then  turned  the  conversation  to  erudite  sub- 
jects ;  and  so  they  came  in  sight  of  the  town,  when  the  vicar 
stopped  and  pointed  towards  the  church,  of  which  the  spire 
rose  a  little  to  the  left,  with  two  aged  yew-trees  half  shadow- 
ing the  burial-ground,  and  in  the  rear  a  glimpse  of  the 
vicarage  seen  amid   the  shrubs  of  its  giirden  ground. 

"  You  will  know  your  way  now,"  said  the  vicar  ;  "  excuse 
me  if  I  quit  you  ;  I  have  a  few  visits  to  make  ;  among  others, 
to  poor  Haley,  husband  to  the  old  Avoman  you  saw.  I  read 
to  him  a  chapter  in  the  Bible  every  day  ;  yet  still  I  fancy 
that  he  believes  in  fairy  charms." 

"  Better  believe  too  much  than  too  little,"  said  Kenelm  ; 
and  he  turned  aside  into  the  village,  and  spent  half  an  hour 
with  Will,  looking  at  the  pretty  baskets  Lily  had  taught  Will 
to  make.  Then,  as  he  went  slowly  homeward,  he  turned 
aside  into  the  churchyard. 

The  church,  built  in  the  thirteenth  century,  was  not  large, 
but  it  probably  sufficed  for  its  congregation,  since  it  betrayed 
no  signs  of  modern  addition  ;  restoration  or  repair  it  needed 
not.     The  centuries  had  but  mellowed  the  tints  of  its  solid 


344  KEN  ELM  C/ffLL/jVGL  V. 

walls,  as  little  injured  by  the  huge  ivy  stems  that  shot  forth 
their  aspiring  leaves  to  the  very  summit  of  the  stately  tower, 
as  by  the  slender  roses  which  had  been  trained  to  climb  up 
a  foot  or  so  of  the  massive  buttresses.  The  site  of  the 
burial-ground  was  unusually  picturesque  ;  sheltered  towards 
the  north  by  a  rising  grtnind  clothed  with  woods,  sloping 
down  at  the  south  towards  tlie  glebe  pasture  grounds, 
through  which  ran  the  brooklet,  sufficiently  near  for  its 
brawling  gurgle  to  be  heard  on  a  still  day.  Kcnehn  sat 
himself  on  an  antique  tomb,  which  was  evidently  appro- 
priated to  some  one  of  higher  tlian  common  rank  in  bygone 
days,  but  on  which  the  sculpture  was  wholly  obliterated. 

The  stillness  and  solitude  of  the  place  had  their  charm 
for  his  meditative  temperament ;  and  he  remained  there 
long,  forgetful  of  time,  and  scarcely  hearing  the  boom  of 
the  clock  that  Avarned  him  of  its  lapse. 

When  suddenly,  a  shadow — -the  shadow  of  a  human  form 
— fell  on  the  grass  on  which  his  eyes  dreamily  rested.  He 
looked  up  with  a  start,  and  beheld  Lily  standing  before  him 
mute  and  still.  Her  image  was  so  present  in  his  thoughts 
at  the  moment  that  he  felt  a  thrill  of  awe,  as  if  the  thoughts 
had  conjured  up  her  apparition.     She  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"You  here,  too?"  she  said  very  softly,  almost  whisperingly. 

"  Too  !  "  echoed  Kenelm,  rising  ;  "  too  !  'Tis  no  wonder 
that  I,  a  stranger  to  the  place,  should  find  my  steps  attracted 
towards  its  most  venerable  building.  Even  the  most  care- 
less traveller,  halting  at  some  remote  abodes  of  the  living, 
turns  aside  to  gaze  on  the  burial-ground  of  tlie  dead.  But 
my  surprise  is  tliat  you.  Miss  Mordaunt,  should  be  attracted 
towards  the  same  spot." 

"  It  is  my  favorite  spot,"  said  Lily,  "  and  always  has 
been.  I  have  sat  many  an  hour  on  that  tombstone.  It  is 
strange  to  think  that  no  one  knows  who  sleeps  beneath  it. 
The  'Guide  Book  to  Moleswich,'  though  it  gives  the  history 
of  the  church  from  the  reign  in  which  it  was  first  built,  can 
only  venture  a  guess  that  this  tomb,  the  grandest  and  oldest 
in  the  burial-ground,  is  tenanted  by  some  member  of  a  fam- 
ily named  Montfichet,  that  was  once  very  powerful  in  the 
county,  and  has  become  extinct  since  the  reign  of  Henry  the 
Sixth.  But,"  added  Lily,  "there  is  not  a  letter  of  the  name 
Montfichet  left.  I  found  out  more  than  any  one  else  has 
done — I  learned  black-letter  on  purpose  ;  look  here,"  and 
she  pointed  to  a  small  spot  in  which  the  moss  had  been  re- 
moved.    "Do  you    see  those  figures?  are  they  not   xviii  ? 


\ 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  345 

and  look  again,  in  what  was  once  the  line  above  the  figures, 
ELE.  It  must  have  been  an  Eleanor,  who  died  at  the  age  of 
eighteen " 

"I  rather  think  it  more  probable  that  the  figures  refer  to 
the  date  of  the  death,  13 18  perhaps  ;  and  so  far  as  I  can  de- 
cipher black-letter,  which  is  more  in  my  father's  line  than 
mine,  I  think  it  is  a  l,  not  e  l,  and  that  it  seems  as  if  there 
had  been  a  letter  between  l  and  tlie  second  e,  which  is  now- 
effaced.  The  tomb  itself  is  not  likely  to  belong  to  any 
powerful  family  then  resident  at  the  place.  Their  monu- 
ments, according  to  usage,  would  have  been  within  the 
church  ;  probably  in  their  own  mortuary  chapel." 

"  Don't  try  to  destroy  my  fancy,"  said  Lily,  shaking  her 
head;  "you  cannot  succeed;  I  know  Jier  history  too  well. 
She  was  young,  and  some  one  loved  her,  and  built  over  her 
the  finest  tomb  he  could  afford  ;  and  see  how  long  the 
epitaph  must  have  been  !  how  much  it  must  have  spoken  in 
her  praise;  and  of  his  grief.  And  then  he  went  his  way,  and 
the  tomb  was  neglected,  and  her  fate  forgotten." 

"My  dear  Miss  Mordaunt,  this  is  indeed  a  wild  romance 
to  spin  out  of  so  slender  a  thread.  But  even  if  true,  there 
is  no  reason  to  think  that  a  life  is  forgotten  though  a  tomb 
be  nes^lected." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Lily,  thoughtfully.  "  But  when  I  am 
dead,  if  I  can  look  down,  I  think  it  would  please  me  to  see 
my  grave  not  neglected  by  those  who  had  loved  me  once." 

She  moved  from  him  as  she  said  this,  and  went  to  a  little 
mound  that  seemed  not  long  since  raised  ;  there  was  a 
simple  cross  at  the  head,  and  a  narrow  border  of  flowers 
round  it.  Lily  knelt  beside  the  flowers  and  pulled  out  a 
stray  weed.  Then  she  rose,  and  said  to  Kenelm,  who  had 
followed  and  now  stood  beside  her  : 

"She  was  the  little  grandchild  of  poor  old  Mrs  Hales. 
I  could  not  cure  her,  though  I  tried  hard  ;  she  was  so  fond 
of  me,  and  died  in  my  arms.  No,  let  me  not  say  '  died  : '  surely 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  dying.     'Tis  but  a  change  of  life  ; 

*'  '  Less  than  the  void  between  two  waves  of  air, 
The  space  between  existence  and  a  soul.'  " 

"  Whose  lines  are  those  ?  "  asked  Kenelm. 
"  I  don't  know  ;  I  learnt  them  from  Lion.     Don't  you 
believe  them  to  be  true  ? " 

Yes!     But  the  truth  does  not  render  the  thought  of 
IS* 


<( ' 


346  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

quitting  this  scene  of  life  for  another  more  pleasing  to  most 
of  us.  See  how  soft  and  gentle  and  bright  is  all  that  living 
summer  land  beyond  ;  let  us-find  svibject  for  talk  from  that, 
not  from  the  graveyard  on  which  we  stand." 

"  But  is  there  not  a  summer  land  fairer  than  that  Ave  see 
now  ;  and  which  we  do  see,  as  in  a  dream,  best  when  we 
take  subjects  of  talk  from  the  graveyard  ?"  Without  wait- 
ing for  a  reply,  Lily  went  on  :  "  I  planted  these  flowers  ; 
Mr.  Eml3'n  was  angry  with  me,  he  said  it  was  *  popish.' 
But  he  had  not  the  heart  to  have  them  taken  up  ;  I  come 
here  very  often  to  see  to  them.  Do  you  think  it  wrong  ? 
Poor  little  Nell  ! — she  was  so  fond  of  flowers.  And  the 
Eleanor  in  the  great  tomb,  she  too  perhaps  knew  some  one 
who  called  her  Nell  ;  but  there  are  no  flowers  round  her 
tomb — Poor  Eleanor  !" 

She  took  the  nosegay  she  wore  on  her  bosom,  and  as  she 
repassed  the  tomb  laid  it  on  the  mouldering  stone. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


They  quitted  the  burial-ground,  taking  their  way  to 
Grasmere.  Kenelm  walked  by  Lily's  side  ;  not  a  word 
passed  between  them  till  they  came  in  sight  of  the  cottage. 

Then  Lily  stopped  abruptly,  and,  lifting  towards  him  her 
charming  face,  said  : 

"  I  told  you  I  would  think  over  what  you  said  to  me  last 
night.  I  have  done  so,  and  feel  I  can  thank  you  honestly. 
You  were  very  kind.  I  never  before  thought  that  I  had  a 
bad  temper  ;  no  cnie  ever  told  me  so.  But  I  see  now  what 
you  mean — sometimes  I  feel  very  quickly,  and  then  I  show 
it.     But  how  did  I  show  it  to  you,  Mr.  Chillingly  ?  " 

"  Did  you  not  turn  your  back  to  me  when  I  seated  my- 
self next  you  in  Mrs.  Bracficld's  garden,  vouchsafing  me  no 
reply  when  I  asked  if  I  had  offended  ?" 

Lily's  face  became  bathed  in  blushes,  and  her  voice 
faltered,  as  she  answered  : 

"  I  was  not  offended  ;  I  was  not  in  a  bad  temper  then  : 
it  was  worse  than  that." 

"  Worse— what  could  it  possibly  be  ?  " 

*'  I  am  afraid  it  was  envy." 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  347 

"  Envy  of  what — of  wliom  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  explain  ;  after  all,  I  fear  aunty  is 
right,  and  the  fairy-tales  put  very  silly,  very  naughty, 
thoughts  into  one's  head.  When  Cinderella's  sisters  went 
to  the  king's  ball,  and  Cinderella  was  left  alone,  did  not  she 
long  to  go  too  ?     Did  not  she  envy  her  sisters  ?  " 

"Ah!  I  understand  now — Sir  Charles  spoke  of  the 
Court  Ball." 

"  And  you  were  there  talking  with  handsome  ladies — and 
— oh  !  I  v/as  so  foolish  and  felt  sore." 

"  You,  who  when  we  first  met  wondered  how  people  who 
could  live  in  the  countrv  preferred  to  live  in  towns,  do  then 
sometimes  contradict  yourself,  and  sigh  for  the  great  world 
that  lies  beyond  these  quiet  water  banks.  You  feel  that  you 
have  youth  and  beauty,  and  wish  to  be  admired  !  " 

"  It  i.s  not  that  exactly,"  said  Lily,  with  a  perplexed  look 
in  her  ingenuous  countenance,  "  and  in  my  better  moments, 
when  the  'bettermost  self'  comes  forth,  I  know  that  I  am 
not  made  for  the  great  world  you  speak  of.     But  you  see 

"   Here  she  paused  again,  and,  as  they  had  now  entered 

the  garden,  dropped  wearily  on  a  bench  beside  the  path. 
Kenelm  seated  himself  there  too,  waiting  for  her  to  finish 
her  broken  sentence. 

"  You  see,"  she  continued,  looking  down  embarrassed, 
and  describing  vague  circles  on  the  gravel  with  her  fairy- 
like foot,  "that  at  home,  ever  since  I  can  remember,  they 
have  treated  me  as  if,  well  as  if  I  were — what  shall  I  say  ? 
— the  child  of  one  of  your  great  ladies.  Even  Lion,  who  is 
so  noble,  -so  grand,  seemed  to  think  when  I  was  a  mere  in- 
fant that  I  was  a  little  queen  ;  once  when  I  told  a  fib  he  did 
not  scold  me,  but  I  never  saw  him  look  so  sad  and  so  angry 
as  when  he  said,  'Never  again  forget  that  you  are  a  lady.' 
And,  but  I  tire  you " 

"  Tire  me,  indeed  !  go  on." 

"  No,  I  have  said  enough  to  explain  why  I  have  at  times 
proud  thoughts,  and  vain  thoughts  ;  and  why  for  instance  I 
said  to  myself,  '  Perhaps  my  place  of  right  is  among  those 
fine  ladies  whom  he' — but  it  is  all  over  now."  She  rose 
hastily  with  a  pretty  laugh,  and  bounded  towards  Mrs. 
Cameron,  who  was  walking  slowly  along  the  lawn  with  a 
book  in  her  hand. 


348  KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

It  was  a  very  merry  party  at  the  vicarage  that  evening. 
Lily  had  not  been  prepared  to  meet  Kenelm  there,  and  her 
face  brightened  wonderfully  as  at  her  entrance  he  turned 
from  the  bookshelves  to  which  Mr.  Emlyn  was  directing  his 
attention.  But,  instead  of  meeting  his  advance,  she  darted 
off  to  the  lawn,  where  Clemmy  and  several  other  children 
greeted  her  with  a  joyous  shout." 

"  Not  acquainted  with  Macleane's  'Juvenal '  ?"  said  the 
reverend  scholar  ;  "you  will  be  greatly  pleased  with  it — 
here  it  is — a  posthumous  work,  edited  by  George  Long.  I 
can  lend  you  Munro's  Lucretius,  '69.  Aha  !  we  have  some 
scholars  yet  to  pit  against  the  Germans." 

"  I  am  heartily  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Kenelm.  "  It  will 
be  a  long  time  before  they  will  ever  wish  to  rival  us  in  that 
game  which  Miss  Clemmy  is  now  forming  on  the  lawn,  and 
in  which  England  has  recently  acquired  an  European  repu- 
tation." 

"  I  don't  take  you.     What  game  ? " 

"  Puss  in  the  Corner.  With  your  leave  I  will  look  out 
and  see  whether  it  be  a  winning  game  for  puss — in  the  long 
run."  Kenelm  joined  the  children,  amidst  Avhom  Lily 
seemed  not  the  least  childlike.  Resisting  all  overtures  from 
Clemmy  to  join  in  their  play,  he  seated  himself  on  a  sloping 
bank  at  a  little  distance — an  idle  looker-on.  His  eye  fol- 
lowed Lily's  nimble  movements,  his  ear  drank  in  tlie  music 
of  her  joyous  laugii.  Could  that  be  the  same  girl  whom  he 
had  seen  tending  the  flower-bed  amid  the  grave-stones  ? 
Mrs.  Emlyn  came  across  the  lawn  and  joined  him,  seating 
herself  also  on  the  bank.  Mrs.  Emlyn  was  an  exceedingly 
clever  woman  ;  nevertheless  she  was  not  formidable,  on  the 
contrary  pleasing  ;  and  though  the  ladies  in  the  neighbor- 
hood said  "she  talked  like  a  book,"  the  easy  gentleness  of 
her  voice  carried  off  that  offence. 

"  I  suppose,  Mr.  Chillingly,"  said  she,  "  I  ought  to  apolo- 
gize for  my  husband's  invitation  to  what  must  seem  to  you 
so  frivolous  an  entertainment  as  a  child's  party.  But  when 
Mr.  Emlyn  asked  you  to  come  to  us  this  evening,  he  was 
not  aware  that  Clemmy  had  also  invited  her  young  friends. 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  349 

He  had  looked  forward  to  a  rational  conversation  with  you 
on  his  own  favorite  studies." 

"  It  is  not  so  long  since  I  left  school  but  that  I  prefer  a 
half-holiday  to  lessons,  even  from  a  tutor  so  pleasant  as  Mr. 
Emlyn — 

'  Ah,  happv  years — once  more  who  would  not  be  a  boy  ! '  " 

"Nay,"  said  Mrs.  Emlyn,  with  a  grave  smile.  "Who 
that  had  started  so  fairly  as  Mr.  Chillingly  in  the  career  of 
man  would  wish  to  go  back  and  resume  a  place  among 
boys  ?  " 

"  But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Emlyn,  the  line  I  quoted  was  wrung 
from  the  heart  of  a  man  who  had  already  outstripped  all 
rivals  in  the  raceground  he  had  chosen,  and  who  at  that 
moment  was  in  the  very  Maytime  of  youth  and  of  fame. 
And  if  such  a  man  at  such  an  epoch  in  his  career  could  sigh 
to  'be  once  more  a  boy,'  it  must  have  been  wdien  he  was 
thinking  of  the  boy's  half-holiday,  and  recoiling  from  the 
taskwork  he  was  condemned  to  learn  as  man." 

"The  line  you  quote  is,  I  think,  from  Childe  Harold,  and 
surely  you  would  not  apply  to  mankind  in  general  the  senti- 
ment of  a  poet  so  peculiarly  self-reHecting  (if  I  may  use 
tliat  expression),  and  in  whom  sentiment  is  often  so 
morbid." 

"  You  are  right,  Mrs.  Emlyn,"  said  Kenelm,  ingenuously. 
"  Still  a  boy's  half-holiday  is  a  very  happy  thing  ;  and 
among  mankind  in  general,  there  must  be  many  who  would 
be  glad  to  have  it  back  again.  Mr.  Emlyn  himself,  I  sliould 
think." 

"Mr.  Emlyn  has  his  half-holiday  now.  Do  you  nut  see 
him  standipg  just  outside  the  window  ?  Do  you  not  liear 
him  laughing  ?  He  is  a  child  again  in  the  mirth  of  his 
children.  I  hope  you  will  stay  some  time  in  the  neighbor- 
hood ;  I  am  sure  you  and  he  will  like  each  other.  And  it  is 
such  a  rare  delitrht  to  him  to  get  a  scholar  like  vourself  to 
talk  to." 

"  Pardon  me,  I  am  not  a  scholar — a  verv  noble  title  that, 
and  not  to  be  given  to  a  lazy  trifler  on  the  surface  of  book- 
lore  like  myself." 

"  You  are  too  modest.  My  husband  has  a  copy  of  your 
Cambridge  prize  verses,  and  says  '  the  Latinity  of  them  is 
cjuite  beautiful.'     I  quote  his  verv  words." 

"  Latin  verse-making  is  a  mere  knack,  little  more  than 
a  proof  that  one  had  an  elegant  scholar  for  one's  tutor,  as  I 


350 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY. 


certainly  had.  But  it  is  by  special  grace  that  a  real  scholar 
can  send  forth  another  real  scholar,  and  a  Kennedy  produce 
a  Munro.  But  to  return  to  the  more  interesting  question 
of  half-holidays  ;  I  declare  that  Clemmy  is  leading  off  your 
husband  in  triumph.  He  is  actually  going  to  be  Puss  in  the 
Corner." 

"  When  you  know  more  of  Charles — I  mean  my  husband 
— you  will  discover  that  his  whole  life  is  more  or  less  of  a 
holiday.  Perhaps  because  he  is  not  what  you  accuse  your- 
self of  being — he  is  not  lazy  ;  he  never  wishes  to  be  a  boy 
once  more  ;  and  taskwork  itself  is  holiday  to  him.  He  en- 
joys shutting  himself  up  in  his  study  and  reading — he  en- 
joys a  walk  with  the  children — he  enjoys  visiting  the  poor 
— he  enjoys  his  duties  as  a  clergyman.  And  though  I  am 
not  always  contented  for  him,  though  I  think  he  should 
have  had  those  honors  in  his  profession  which  have  been 
lavished  on  men  with  less  ability  and  less  learning,  yet  he 
is  never  discontented  himself.  Shall  I  tell  you  his  se- 
cret ?  •' 

"  Do." 

"  He  is  a  Thanks-giving^  Man.  You,  too,  must  have  much 
to  thank  God  for,  Mr.  Chillingly  ;  and  in  thanksgiving  to 
God  does  there  not  blend  usefulness  to  man,  and  such 
sense  of  pastime  in  the  usefulness  as  makes  each  day  a  holi- 
day?" 

Kenelm  looked  up  into  the  quiet  face  of  this  obscure 
pastor's  wife  with  a  startled  expression  in  his  own. 

"  I  see,  ma'am,"  said  he,  "that  you  have  devoted  much 
thought  to  the  study  of  the  ?csthctical  philosophy  as  ex- 
pounded by  German  thinkers,  whom  it  is  rather  difficult  to 
understand."  • 

"  I,  Mr.  Chillingly — good  gracious  !  No  !  What  do  you 
mean  by  your  acsthetical  philosophy  ?" 

"According  to  aesthetics,  I  believe  man  arrives  at  his 
highest  state  of  moral  excellence  when  labor  and  duty  lose 
all  the  harshness  of  effort — when  they  become  the  impulse 
and  habit  of  life  ;  when,  as  the  essential  attributes  of  the 
beautiful,  they  are,  like  beauty,  enjoyed  as  pleasure  ;  and 
thus,  as  you  expressed,  each  day  becomes  a  holiday.  A 
lovely  doctrine,  not  perhaps  so  lofty  as  that  of  the  Stoics, 
but  more  bewitching.  Only,  very  few  of  us  can  practically 
merge  our  cares  and  our  worries  into  so  serene  an  atmos- 
phere." 

"  Some  do    so  without    knowing  anything   of  aesthetics 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  351 

and  with  no  pretence  to  be  Stoics  ;  but,  then,  they  are 
Christians." 

"There  are  some  such  Cliristians,  no  doubt,  but  they  are 
rarely  to  be  met  with.  Take  Christendom  altogether,  and 
it  appears  to  comprise  the  most  agitated  population  in  the 
world  ;  the  population  in  which  there  is  the  greatest  grumb- 
ling as  to  the  quantity  of  labor  to  be  done,  the  loudest  com- 
plaints that  duty  instead  of  a  pleasure  is  a  very  hard  and 
disagreeable  §truggle,  and  in  which  holidays  are  fewest  and 
the  moral  atmosphere  least  serene.  Perhaps,"  added  Ken- 
elm,  with  a  deeper  shade  of  tliought  on  his  brow,  "it  is 
this  perpetual  consciousness  of  struggle  ;  this  difficulty  in 
merging  toil  into  ease,  or  stern  duty  into  placid  enjoyment  ; 
this  refusal  to  ascend  for  one's  self  into  the  calm  of  an  air 
aloof  from  the  cloud  which  darkens,  and  the  hailstorm 
which  beats  upon,  the  fellow-men  we  leave  below;  tliat 
makes  the  troubled  life  of  Christendom  dearer  to  heaven, 
and  more  conducive  to  heaven's  design  in  rendering  earth 
the  wrestling-ground  and  not  the  resting-place  of  man,  than 
is  that  of  the  Brahmin,  ever  seeking  to  abstract  himself  from 
the  Christian's  conflicts  of  action  and  desire,  and  to  carry 
into  its  extremest  practice  the  aesthetic  theory,  of  basking 
undisturbed  in  the  contemplation  of  the  most  absolute 
beauty  human  thought  can  reflect  from  its  idea  of  divine 
good  !  " 

Whatever  Mrs.  Emlyn  might  have  said  in  reply  was  in- 
terrupted by  the  rush  of  the  children  towards  her  ;  they 
were  tired  of  play,  and  eager  for  tea  and  the  magic-lantern. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


The  room  is  duly  obscured,  and  the  white  sheet  attached 
to  the  wall ;  the  children  are  seated,  hushed  and  awe-stricken. 
And  Kenelm  is  placed  next  to  Lily. 

The  tritest  things  in  our  mortal  experience  are  among 
the  most  mysterious.  There  is  more  mystery  in  the  growth 
of  a  blade  of  grass  than  there  is  in  the  wizard's  mirror  or 
the  feats  of  a  spirit  medium.  Most  of  us  have  known  the 
attraction  that  draws  one  human  being  to  anotlier,  and 
makes  it  so  exquisite  a  happiness  to  sit  quiet  and  mute  by 
another's   side ;  which   stills   for   the    moment   the  busiest 


352  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

thoughts  in  our  brain,  the  most  turbulent  desires  in  our 
licarts,  and  renders  us  but  conscious  of  a  present  ineffable 
bliss.  Most  of  us  iiave  known  that.  But  who  has  ever 
been  satisfied  with  any  metaphysical  account  of  its  why  or 
wherefore  ?  We  can  but  say  it  is  love,  and  love  at  that 
earlier  section  of  its  history  which  has  not  yet  escaped  from 
romance  :  but  by  what  process  that  other  person  has  become 
singled  out  of  the  whole  universe  to  attain  such  special 
power  over  one,  is  a  problem  that,  though  many  have  at- 
tempted to  solve  it,  has  never  attained  to  solution.  In  the 
dim  light  of  the  room  Kenelm  could  only  disitinguish  the 
outlines  of  Lily's  delicate  face,  but  at  each  new  surprise  in 
the  show  the  face  intuitively  turned  to  his,  and  once,  when 
the  terrible  image  of  a  sheeted  ghost,  pursuing  a  guilty  man, 
I)assed  along  the  wall,  she  drew  closer  to  him  in  her  childish 
fright,  and  by  an  involuntary  innocent  movement  laid  her 
hand  on  his.  He  detained  it  tenderly,  but,  alas!  it  was 
withdrawn  the  next  moment :  the  ghost  was  succeeded  by  a 
couple  of  dancing  dogs.  And  Tally's  ready  laugh— partly  at 
the  dogs,  partly  at  her  own  p»-evious  alarm — vexed  Kenelm's 
ear.  lie  wished  there  had  been  a  succession  of  ghosts  each 
more  appalling  than  the  iast. 

The  entertainment  was  over,  and  after  a  slight  refresh- 
ment of  cakes  and  wine-and-watcr  the  party  broke  up  ;  the 
children-visitors  went  awav  attended  by  servant-maids  who 
had  come  for  ihcni.  Mrs.  Cameron  and  Lily  were  to  walk 
home  on  foot. 

"It  is  a  lovely  night,  Mrs.  Cameron,"  said  Mr.  Emlyn, 
"  and  I  will  attend  you  to  your  gate." 

''  Permit  me  also,"  said  Kenelm. 

"Ay,"  said  the  vicar,  "it  is  your  own  way  to  Cromwell 
Lodge." 

The  path  led  them  through  the  church-yard  as  the  nearest 
approach  to  the  brookside.  The  moonbeams  shimmered 
through  the  yew-trees  and  rested  on  the  old  tomb — playing, 
as  it  were,  round  the  flowers  which  Lily's  hand  had  that 
day  dropped  upon  its  stone.  She  was  walking  beside  Ken- 
elm— the  elder  two  a  few  ])aces  in  front. 

"  How  silly  I  was,"  said  she,  "  to  be  so  frightened  at  the 
false  ghost!  \  don't  think  a  real  one  would  frighten  me, 
at  least  if  seen  here,  in  this  loving  moonlight,  and  on  God's 
ground  !  " 

"  Gliosts,  were  they  permitted  to  appear  except  in  a 
magic-laniern,  could  not  harm  the  innocent.     And  I  wonder 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  333 

wh)'  the  idea  of  their  apparition  should  always  have  been 
associated  with  such  phantasies  of  horror,  especially  by 
sinless  children,  who  have  the  least  reason  to  dread  them." 

"  Oh,  that  is  true,"  cried  Lily  ;  "  but  even  when  we  are 
grown  up  there  must  be  times  in  which  we  should  so  long 
to  see  a  ghost,  and  feel  what  a  comfort,  what  a  joy  it  would 
be." 

"  I  understand  you.  If  some  one  very  dear  to  us  had 
vanished  from  our  life  ;  if  we  felt  the  anguish  of  the  separa- 
tion so  intensely  as  to  efface  the  thought  that  life,  as  you 
said  so  well,  'never  dies  ;'  well,  yes,  then  I  can  conceive 
that  the  mourner  would  yearn  to  have  a  glimpse  of  the  van- 
ished one,  were  it  but  to  ask  the  sole  and  only  question  he 
could  desire  to  put  :  '  Art  thou  happy  ?  May  I  hope  that 
we  shall  meet  again,  never  to  part — never  ? '  " 

Kenelm's  voice  trembled  as  he  spoke  ;  tears  stood  in  his 
eyes.  A  melancholy,  vague,  unaccountable,  overpowering, 
passed  across  his  heart,  as  the  shadow  of  some  dark-winged 
bird  passes  over  a  quiet  stream. 

"You  have  never  yet  felt  this  ?  "  asked  Lily  doubtingly, 
in  a  soft  voice,  full  of  tender  pity,  stopping  short  and  look- 
ing into  his  face. 

"  I  ?  No.  I  have  never  yet  lost  one  whom  I  so  loved 
and  so  yearned  to  see  again.  I  was  but  thinking  that  such 
losses  may  befall  us  all  ere  we  too  vanish  out  of  sight." 

*'Lily  !"  called  forth  Mrs.  Camerbn,  halting  at  the  gate 
of  the  burial-ground. 

"  Yes,  auntie  ?" 

"Mr.  Emlyn  wants  to  know  how  far  you  have  got  in 
'  Numa  Pompilius.'     Come  and  answer  for  yourself." 

"  Oh,  those  tiresome  grown-up  people  !  "  whispered  Lily, 
petulantly,  to  Kenelm.  "  I  do  like  Mr.  Emlyn  ;  he  is  one 
of  the  very  best  of  men.  But  still  he  is  grown  up,  and  his 
*  Numa  Pompilius  '  is  so  stupid." 

"  My  first  French  lesson-book.  No,  it  is  not  stupid. 
Read  on.  It  has  hints  of  the  prettiest  fairy-tale  I  know, 
and  of  the  fairy  in  especial  who  bewitched  my  fancies  as  a 
boy." 

By  this  time  they  had  gained  the  gate  of  the  burial- 
ground. 

"  What  fairy  tale  ?  what  fairy  ?"  asked  Lily,  speaking 
quickly. 

"  She  was  a  fairy,  though  in  heathen  language  she  is 
called  a  nymph— Egeria.     She  was  the  link  between   men 


354  KEN  ELM   CIIiLLlNGLY. 

and  gods  to  wliom  she  loved ;  she  belongs  to  the  race  of 
gods.     True,  she,  too,  may  vanish,  but  she  can  never  die." 

"Well,  Miss  Lily,"  said  the  vicar,  "and  how  far  in  the 
book  I  lent  you — '  Numa  Ponipilius  '  ?  " 

"  Ask  me  this  day  next  week." 

"  I  will  ;  but  mind  you  are  to  translate  as  you  go  on.  I 
must  see  the  translation." 

"Very  well.    I  will  do  my  best,"  answered  Lily,  meekly, 

Lily  now  walked  by  the  vicar's  side,  and  Kenelm  by  Mrs. 
Cameron's,  till  they  reached  Grasmere. 

"  I  will  go  on  with  you  to  the  bridge,  Mr.  Chillingly," 
said  the  vicar,  when  the  ladies  had  disappeared  within  their 
garden. 

"  We  had  little  time  to  look  over  my  books,  and,  by-the- 
by,  I  hope  you  at  least  took  the  'Juvenal.'  " 

"  No,  Mr.  Emlyn  ;  who  can  quit  your  house  with  an  in- 
clination for  satire  ?  I  must  come  some  morning  and  sel  ;ct 
a  volume  from  those  works  which  give  pleasant  views  of 
life  and  bequeath  favorable  impressions  of  mankind.  Your 
wife,  with  whom  I  have  had  an  interesting  conversation 
upon  the  principles  of  ?esthetical  philosophy " 

"  My  wife  -Charlotte  !  She  knows  nothing  about  aesthe- 
tical  philosophy." 

"  She  calls  it  by  another  name,  but  she  understands  it 
well  enough  to  illustrate  the  principles  by  example.  She 
tells  me  that  labor  and  duty  are  so  taken  up  by  you 

'  In  cicn  lieitein  Rcgionen 
Wo  die  leinen  Fonncii  wohnen,' 

that  they  become  joy  and  beauty — is  it  so  ? " 

"I  am  sure  that  Charhjtte  never  said  anything  half  so 
poetical.  But,  in  plain  words,  the  days  pass  with  me  very 
happily.  I  should  be  ungrateful  if  I  were  not  happy. 
Heaven  has  bestowed  on  me  S(^  many  sources  of  love — wife, 
children,  books,  and  the  calling  which,  when  one  quits  one's 
own  threshold,  carries  love  along  with  it  into  the  world  be- 
yond. A  small  world  in  itself—only  a  parish — but  then  my 
calling  links  it  with  infinity." 

"  i  see  ;  it  is  from  the  sources  of  love  that  you  draw  the 
supplies  for  happiness." 

"  Surely  ;  without  love  one  may  be  good,  but  one  could 
scarcely  be  b.appy.  No  one  can  dream  of  a  heaven  except  as 
the  abode  of  love.     What  writer  is  it  who  says,  '  How  well 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  355 

the  human  heart  was  understood  by  him  who  first  called 
God  by  the  name  of  Father '  ?" 

*'  I  do  not  remember,  but  it  is  beautifully  said.  You 
evidently  do  not  subscribe  to  the  arguments  in  Decimus 
Roach's  'Approach  to  the  Angels.'  " 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Chillingly  !  your  words  teach  me  how  lacera- 
ted a  man's  happiness  may  be  if  he  does  not  keep  the  claws 
of  vanity  closely  pared.  I  actually  feel  a  keen  pang  when 
you  speak  to  me  of  that  eloquent  panegyric  on  celibacy, 
ignorant  that  the  only  thing  I  ever  published  which  I  fan- 
cied was  not  without  esteem  by  intellectual  readers  is  a 
Reply  to  '  The  Approach  to  the  Angels  ' — a  3'outhful  book, 
written  in  the  first  year  of  my  marriage.  But  it  obtained 
success  :  I  have  just  revised  the  tenth  edition  of  it." 

"That  is  the  book  I  will  select  from  your  library.  You 
will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  Mr.  Roach,  whom  I  saw  at  Ox- 
ford a  few  days  ago,  recants  his  opinions,  and,  at  the  age  of 
fifty,  is  about  to  be  married— he  begs  me  to  add,  '  not  for 
his  own  personal  satisfaction.'  " 

"Going  to  be  married  !— Decimus  Roach!  I  thought 
my  Reply  would  convince  him  at  last." 

'•  I  shall  look  to  your  Reply  to  remove  some  lingering 
doubts  in  my  own  mind." 

"  Doubts  in  favor  of  celibacy  ?" 

"Well,  if  not  for  laymen,  perhaps  for  a  priesthood." 

"  The  most  forcible'  part  of  my  Reply  is  on  that  head  : 
read  it  attentively.  I  think  that,  of  all  sections  of  mankind, 
the  clergy  are  those  to  whom,  not  only  for  their  own  sakes, 
but  for'the  sake  of  the  community,  marriage  should  be 
most  commended.  Why,  sir,"  continued  the  vicar,  warm- 
ing up  into  oratorical  enthusiasm,  "  are  you  not  aware  that 
tht-re  are  no  homes  in  England  from  which  men  who  have 
served  and  adorned  their  country  have  issued  forth  in  such 
prodigal  numbers  as  those  of  the  clergy  of  our  Church  ? 
What  other  class  can  produce  a  list  so  crowded  with  emi- 
nent, names  as  we  can  boast  in  the  sons  we  have  reared  and 
sent  forth  into  the  world  ?  How  many  statesmen,  soldiers, 
sailors,  lawvers,  physicians,  authors,  men  of  science,  have 
been  the  sons  of  us  village  pastors  !  Naturally— for  with 
us  they  receive  careful  education  ;  they  acquire  of  necessity 
the  simple  tastes  and  disciplined  habits  which  lead  to  in- 
dustrv  and  perseverance  ;  and,  for  the  most  part,  they  carry 
with  them  throughout  life  a  purer  moral  code,  a  more  sys- 
tematic reverence  for  things  and   thoughts  religious  asso- 


356  KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY. 

ciated  with  their  earliest  images  ui  affection  and  respect^ 
than  can  be  expected  from  the  sons  of  laymen,  whose  pa- 
rents are  wholly  temporal  and  worldly.  Sir,  I  maintain  tliat 
this  is  a  cogent  argument,  to  be  considered  well  by  the 
nation,  not  only  in  favor  of  a  married  clergy — for,  on  that 
score,  a  million  of  Roaches  could  not  convert  public  opinion 
in  this  country  —but  in  favor  of  the  Church,  the  Established 
Church;  which  has  been  so  fertile  a  nursery  of  illustrious 
laymen  ;  and  I  have  often  thought  that  one  main  and  un- 
detected cause  of  the  lower  tone  of  morality,  public  and 
private,  of  the  greater  corruption  of  manners,  of  the  more 
prevalent  scorn  of  religion  which  we  see,  for  instance,  in  a 
country  so  civilized  as  France,  is,  that  its  clergy  can  train  no 
sons  to  carrv  into  the  contests  of  earth  the  steadfast  belief 
in  accountability  to  Heaven." 

"  I  thank  vou  with  a  full  heart,"  said  Kenelm.  "  I  shall 
ponder  well  over  all  that  you  have  so  earnestly  said.  I  ;im 
already  disposed  to  give  up  all  lingering  crotchets  as  to  a 
bachelor  clergy  ;  but,  as  a  layman,  I  fear  that  I  sliall  never 
attain  to  the  purified  philanthropy  of  Mr.  Decimus  Roach, 
and  if  ever  I  do  marry  it  will  be  very  much  for  my  personal 
satisfaction." 

Mr.  Emlyn  laughed  good-humoredly,  and,  as  they  had 
now  reached  the  bridge,  shook  hands  with  Kenelm,  and 
walked  homewards,  along  the  brook-side  and  through  the 
burial-ground,  with  tlie  alert  step  and  the  uplifted  head  of  a 
man  who  has  joy  in  life  and  admits  of  no  fear  in  death. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 


For  the  next  two  weeks  or  so  Kenelm  and  Lily  met,  not 
indeed  so  often  as  the  reader  might  suppose,  but  still  fre- 
quently ;  five  times  at  Mrs.  Braefield's,  once  again  at  the 
Vicarage,  and  twice  when  Kenelm  had  called  at  Grasmere  ; 
and,  being  invited  to  stay  to  tea  at  one  of  those  visits,  he 
stayed  the  whole  evening.  Kenelm  was  more  and  more 
fascinated  in  proportion  as  he  saw  more  and  more  of  a  crea- 
ture so  exquisitely  strange  to  his  experience.  She  was  to 
him  not  only  a  poem,  but  a  poem  in  the  Sibylline  Books  — 
enigmatical,  pcr[)lcxing  conjecture,  and  somehow  or  other 
mysteriously  blending  its  interest  with  visions  of  the  future. 


KEN  ELM   CHIIJ.INGLY.  357 

Lily  was  indeed  an  enchanting  combination  of  opposites 
rarely  blended  into  harmony.  Her  ignorance  of  much  that 
girls  know  before  they  number  half  her  years,  was  so  re- 
lieved by  candid,  innocent  simplicity  ;  so  adorned  by  pretty 
fancies  and  sweet  beliefs  ;  and  so  contrasted  and  lit  vip  by 
gleams  of  a  knowledge  that  the  young  ladies  we  call  well 
educated  seldom  exhibit — knovyledge  derived  from  quick 
obseryation  of  external  nature,  and  impressionable  sus- 
ceptibility to  its  varying  and  subtle  beauties.  This  knowl- 
edge had  been  perhaps  first  instilled,  and  subsequently 
nourished,  by  such  poetry  as  she  had  not  only  learned  by 
heart,  but  taken  up  as  inseparable  from  the  healthful  circu- 
lation of  her  thoughts  ;  not  the  poetry  of  our  own  day — 
most  young  ladies  know  enough  of  that  — but  selected  frag- 
ments from  the  verse  of  old,  most  of  them  from  poets  now 
little  read  by  the  young  of  either  sex,  poets  dear  to  spirits 
like  Coleridge  or  Charles  Lamb.  None  of  them,  however, 
so  dear  to  her  as  the  solemn  melodies  of  Milton.  Much  of 
such  poetry  she  had  never  read  in  books  ;  it  had  been 
taught  her  in  childhood  by  her  guardian,  the  painter.  And 
with  all  this  imperfect,  desultory  culture,  there  was  such 
dainty  refinement  in  her  every  look  and  gesture,  and  such 
deep  woman-tenderness  of  heart.  Since  Kenelm  had  com- 
mended "Numa  Pompilius  "  to  her  study,  she  had  taken 
very  lovingly  to  that  old-fashioned  romance,  and  was  fond 
of  talking  to  him  about  Egeria  as  a  creature  who  had  really 
existed. 

But  what  was  the  effect  that  he — the  first  man  of  years 
correspondent  to  her  own  with  whom  she  had  ever  familiarly 
conversed— what  was  the  effect  that  Kenelm  Chillingly  pro- 
duced on  the  mind  and  the  heart  of  Lily  ? 

This  was,  after  all,  the  question  that  puzzled  him  the  most 
— not  without  reason  :  it  might  have  puzzled  the  shrewdest 
bystander.  The  artless  candor  with  which  she  manifested 
her  liking  to  him  was  at  variance  with  the  ordinary  char- 
acter of  maiden  love  ;  it  seemed  more  the  fondness  of  a  child 
for  a  favorite  brother.  And  it  was  this  uncertainty  that,  in 
his  own  thoughts,  justified  Kenelm  for  lingering  on,  and  be- 
lieving that  it  was  necessary  to  win,  or  at  least  to  learn  more 
of,  her  secret  heart  before  he  could  venture  to  disclose  his 
own.  He  did  not  flatter  himself  with  the  pleasing  fear  that 
he  might  be  endangering  her  happiness  ;  it  was  only  his  own 
that  was  risked.  Then,  in  all  those  meetings,  all  those  con- 
versations to  themselves,  there  had  passed  none  of  the  words 


358  KEN  ELM  CFirLT.INGLY. 

which  commit  our  destiny  to  the  will  (jf  anotlier.  If  in  the 
man's  eyes  love  would  force  its  way,  Lily's  frank,  innocent 
gaze  chilled  it  back  again  to  its  inward  cell.  Joyously  as 
she  would  spring  forward  to  meet  him,  there  was  no  tell-tale 
blush  on  her  cheek,  no  self-betraying  tremor  in  her  clear, 
sweet-toned  voice.  No  ;  there  had  not  yet  been  a  moment 
when  he  could  say  to  himself,  "  She  loves  me."  Often  he 
said  to  himself,  "She  kncnvs  not  yet  what  love  is." 

In  the  intervals  of  time  not  passed  in  Lily's  society, 
Kenelm  would  take  long  rambles  with  Mr.  Emlyn,or  saunter 
into  Mrs.  Braefield's  drawing-room.  For  the  former  he  con- 
ceived a  more  cordial  sentiment  of  friendship  than  he  enter- 
tained for  any  man  of  his  own  age — a  friendship  that  ad- 
mitted the  noble  elements  of  admiration  and  respect. 

Charles  Emlyn  was  one  of  those  characters  in  which  the 
colors  appear  pale  unless  the  light  be  brought  very  close  to 
them,  and  then  each  tint  seems  to  change  into  a  warmer  and 
richer  one.  The  manner  which,  at  first,  you  would  call 
merely  gentle,  becomes  unaffectedly  genial  ;  the  mind  you 
at  first  might  term  inert,  though  well-informed,  you  now  ac- 
knowledge to  be  full  of  disciplined  vigor.  Emlyn  was  not, 
however,  without  his  little  amiable  foibles  ;  and  it  was,  per- 
liaps,  these  that  made  him  lovable.  He  was  a  great  believer 
in  human  goodness,  and  very  easily  imposed  upon  by  cun- 
ning appeals  to  "his  well-known  benevolence."  He  was 
disposed  to  overrate  the  excellence  of  all  that  he  once  took 
to  his  heart.  He  thought  he  had  the  best  wife  in  the  world, 
the  best  children,  the  best  servants,  the  best  bee  hive,  the 
best  pony,  and  the  best  house-dog.  His  parish  was  the  most 
virtuous,  his  church  the  most  picturesque,  his  vicarage  the 
j^rettiest,  certainly,  in  the  whole  shire — perhaps,  in  the  whole 
kingdom.  Probably  it  was  this  philosophy  of  optimism 
which  ccmtributed  to  lift  him  into  the  serene  realm  of 
aesthetic  joy. 

lie  was  not  without  his  dislikes  as  well  as  likings. 
Though  a  liberal  Churchman  towards  Protestant  dissenters, 
lie  cherished  the  odium  theologicutn  for  all  that  savored  of 
Popery.  Perhaps  there  was  another  cause  for  this  besides 
the  purely  theological  one.  Early  in  life  a  young  sister  of 
his  had  been,  to  use  his  phrase,  "secretly  entrapped"  into 
conversion  to  the  Roman  Catholic  faith,  and  had  since  en- 
tered a  convent.  His  afifections  had  been  deeply  wounded 
by  this  loss  to  the  range  of  them.  Mr.  Emlyn  had  also  his 
little    infirmities   of    self-esteem,    rather    than    of    vanity. 


KEl^ELM  CfHLLlNGLY.  359 

Though  he  had  seen  very  little  of  any  world  beyond  that  of 
his  parish,  he  piqued  himself  on  his  knowledge  of  human 
nature  and  of  practical  affairs  in  general.  Certainly  no  man 
had  read  more  about  them,  especially  in  the  books  of  the 
ancient  classics.  Perhaps  it  was  owing  to  this  that  he  so 
little  understood  Lily— a  character  to  which  the  ancient 
classics  afforded  no  counterpart  nor  clue  ;  and  perhaps  it  was 
this  also  that  made  Lily  think  him  "  so  terribly  grown  up." 
Thus,  despite  his  mild  good  nature,  she  did  not  get  on  ver^ 
well  with  him. 

The  society  of  this  amiable  scholar  pleased  Kenelm  the 
more,  because  the  scholar  evidently  had  not  the  remotest 
idea  that  Kenelm's  sojourn  at  Cromwell  Lodge  was  in- 
fluenced by  the  vicinity  to  Grasmere.  Mr.  Emlyn  was  sure 
that  he  knew  human  nature,  and  practical  affairs  in  general, 
too  well  to  suppose  that  the  heir  to  a  rich  baronet  could 
dream  of  taking  for  wife  a  girl  without  fortune  or  rank,  the 
orphan  ward  of  a  low-born  artist  only  just  struggling  into 
reputation  ;  or,  indeed,  that  a  Cambridge  prizeman,  who  had 
evidently  read  much  on  grave  and  dry  subjects,  and  who 
had  no  less  evidently  seen  a  great  deal  of  polished  society, 
could  find  any  other  attraction  in  a  very  imperfectly  educated 
girl,  who  tamed  butterflies  and  knew  no  more  than  they  did 
of  fashionable  life,  than  Mr.  Emlyn  himself  felt  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  pretty  wayward  innocent  child — the  companion 
and  friend  of  his  Clemmy. 

Mrs.  Braefield  was  more  discerning  ;  but  she  had  a  good 
deal  of  tact,  and  did  not  as  yet  scare  Kenelm  away  from  her 
house  by  letting  him  see  how  much  she  had  discerned.  She 
would  not  even  tell  her  husband,  who,  absent  from  the  place 
on  most  mornings,  was  too  absorbed  in  the  cares  of  his  own 
business  to  interest  himself  much  in  the  affairs  of  others. 

Now  Elsie,  being  still  of  a  romantic  turn  of  mind,  had 
taken  it  into  her  head  that  Lily  Mordaunt,  if  not  actually 
the  princess  to  be  found  in  poetic  dramas  whose  rank  was 
for  awhile  kept  concealed,  was  yet  one  of  the  higher-born 
daughters  of  the  ancient  race  whose  name  she  bore,  and  in 
that  respect  no  derogatory  alliance  for  Kenelm  Chillingly. 
A  conclusion  she  had  arrived  at  from  no  better  evidence  than 
the  well-bred  appearance  and  manners  of  the  aimt,  and  the 
exquisite  delicacy  of  the  niece's  form  and  features,  with  the 
undefinable  air  of  distinction  which  accompanied  even  her 
most  careless  and  sportive  moments.  But  Mrs.  Braefield 
also  had  the  wit  to  discover  that  under  the  infantine  ways 


36o  KENELM   CI/ILLINGLY. 

and  phantasies  of  this  almost  sclf-taiiglit  f^irl  there  lay,  as 
yet  undeveloped,  the  element  of  a  beautiful  womanhood. 
So  that  altogether,  from  the  very  day  she  first  re-encountered 
Kenelm,  Elsie's  thought  had  been  that  Lily  was  the  wife  to 
suit  him.  Once  conceiving  that  idea,  her  natural  strength 
of  will  made  her  resolve  on  giving  all  facilities  to  carry  it 
out  silently  and  unobtrusively,  and  therefore  skilfully. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  think,"  she  said  one  day,  when  Kenelm 
had  joined  her  walk  through  the  pleasant  shrubberies  in  her 
garden  ground,  "that  you  have  made  such  friends  with  Mr. 
Emlyn.  Though  all  hereabouts  like  him  so  much  for  his 
goodness,  there  are  few  who  can  appreciate  his  learning. 
To  you  it  must  be  a  surprise  as  well  as  pleasure  to  find,  in 
this  quiet  humdrum  place,  a  companion  so  clever  and  well- 
informed  ;  it  compensates  for  your  disappointment  in  dis- 
covering that  our  brook  yields  such  bad  sport." 

"  Don't  disparage  the  brook  ;  it  yiclcls  the  pleasantest 
banks  on  whicli  to  lie  down  under  old  pollard  oaks  at  noon, 
or  over  which  to  saunter  at  morn  and  eve.  Where  those 
charms  are  absent,  even  a  salmon  could  not  please.  Yes  ;  I 
rejoice  to  have  made  friends  with  Mr.  Emlyn.  I  have  learned 
a  great  deal  from  him,  and  am  often  asking  myself  whether 
I  shall  ever  make  peace  with  my  conscience  by  putting  what 
I  have  learned  into  practice." 

"  May  I  ask  what  special  branch  of  learning  is  that  ?" 

"I  scarcely  know  how  to  define  it.  Suppose  we  call  it 
*  Worth-whilcisni.'  Among  the  New  Ideas  which  I  was 
recommended  to  study  as  those  that  must  govern  my  gener- 
ation, the  Not-worth-while  Idea  holds  a  very  high  rank  ;  and 
being  myself  naturally  of  calm  and  equable  constitution,  that 
new  idea  made  the  basis  of  my  philosophical  system.  But 
since  I  have  become  intimate  with  Charles  Emlyn  I  think 
there  is  a  great  deal  to  be  said  in  favor  of  Worth-whileism, 
old  idea  though  it  be.  I  see  a  man  who,  with  very  common- 
place materials  for  interest  or  amusement  at  his  command, 
continues  to  be  always  interested  or  generally  amused  ;  I  ask 
myself  why  and  how  ?  And  it  seems  to  me  as  if  the  cause 
started  from  fixed  beliefs  which  settle  his  relations  with  God 
and  man,  and  that  settlement  he  will  not  allow  any  specula- 
tions to  disturb.  Be  those  beliefs  questionable  or  not  by 
others,  at  least  they  are  such  as  cannot  displease  a  Deity,  and 
cannot  fail  to  be  kindly  and  usefid  to  fellow-mortals.  Then 
he  plants  these  beliefs  on  the  soil  of  a  happy  and  genial  home, 
which  tends  to  confirm  and  strengthen  and  call  them  into 


1 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  361 

daily  practice  ;  and  when  he  goes  forth  from  home,  even  to 
the  farthest  verge  of  the  circle  that  surrounds  it,  he  carries 
with  him  the  home  influences  of  kindliness  and  use.  Possi- 
bly my  line  of  life  may  be  drawn  to  the  verge  of  a  wider 
circle  than  his  ;  but  so  much  the  better  for  interest  and 
amusement,  if  it  can  be  drawn  from  the  same  centre  ;  name- 
ly, fixed  beliefs  daily  warmed  into  vital  action  in  the  sunshine 
of  a  congenial  home." 

Mrs.  Braefield  listened  to  this  speech  with  pleased  atten- 
tion, and,  as  it  came  to  its  close,  the  name  of  Lily  trembled 
on  her  tongue,  for  she  divined  that  when  he  spoke  of  home 
Lily  was  in  his  thoughts  ;  but  she  checked  the  impulse,  and 
replied  by  a  generalized  platitude. 

"Certainly  the  first  thing  in  life  is  to  secure  a  happy  and 
congenial  home.  It  must  be  a  terrible  trial  for  the  best  of 
us  if  we  marry  without  love." 

"  Terrible,  indeed,  if  the  one  loves  and  the  other  does  not." 

"That  can  scarcely  be  your  case,  Mr.  Chillingly,  for  I  am 
sure  vou  could  not  marry  where  you  did  not  love  ;  and  do 
not  think  I  flatter  you  when  I  say  that  a  man  far  less  gifted 
than  you  can  scarcely  fail  to  be  loved  by  the  woman  he  wooes 
and  wins." 

Kenelm,  in  this  respect  one  of  the  modestest  of  human 
beings,  shook  his  head  doubtingly  and  was  about  to  reply  in 
self-disparagement,  when,  lifting  his  eyes  and  looking  round, 
he  halted  mute  and  still  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot.  They  had 
entered  tlie  trellised  circle  through  the  roses  of  which  he  had 
first  caught  sight  of  the  young  face  that  had  haunted  him 
ever  since. 

"Ah  !"  he  said,  abruptly  ;  "I  cannot  stay  longer  here, 
dreaming  away  the  work-day  hours  in  a  fairy  ring.  1  am 
going  to  town  to-day  by  the  next  train." 

"  You  are  coming  back  ?" 

"  Of  course — this  evening.  I  left  no  address  at  my  lodg- 
ings in  London.  There  must  be  a  large  accumulation  of 
letters — some,  no  doubt,  from  my  father  and  mother.  I  am 
only  going  for  them.  Good-bye.  How  kindly  you  have 
listened  to  me  !  " 

"  Shall  we  fix  a  day  next  week  for  seeing  the  remains  of 
the  old  Roman  villa  ?  I  will  ask  Mrs,  Cameron  and  her 
niece  to  be  of  the  party." 

"Any  day  you  please,"  said  Kenelm,  joyfully. 
16 


362  KENELM   CHILLINGLY 


CHAPTER   XV. 

Kenelm  did  indeed  find  a  huge  pile  of  letters  and  notes 
on  reaching  his  forsaken  apartment  in  Mayfair — many  of 
them  merely  invitations  for  days  long  past,  none  of  them  of 
interest  except  two  from  Sir  Peter,  three  from  his  mother, 
and  one  from  Tom  Bowles. 

Sir  Peter's  were  sliort.  In  the  first  he  gently  scolded 
Kenelm  for  going  away  without  communicating  any  address  ; 
and  stated  the  acquaintance  he  had  formed  with  Gordon,  the 
favorable  impression  that  young  gentleman  had  made  on 
him,  the  transfer  of  the ^20,000,  and  the  invitation  given  to 
Gordon,  the  Traverses,  and  Lady  Glenalvon.  The  second, 
dated  much  later,  noted  the  arrival  of  his  invited  guests, 
dwelt  with  warmth  unusual  to  Sir  Peter  on  the  attractions 
of  Cecilia,  and  took  occasion  to  refer,  not  the  less  emphatic- 
ally because  as  it  were  incidentally,  to  the  sacred  promise 
which  Kenelm  had  given  him  never  to  propose  to  a  young 
lady  until  the  case  had  been  submitted  to  the  examination 
and  received  the  consent  of  Sir  Peter.  "  Come  to  Exmund- 
ham,  and  if  I  do  not  give  my  consent  to  propose  to  Cecilia 
Travers,  hold  me  a  tyrant  and  rebel."  _ 

Lady  Chillingly's  letters  were  much  longer.  They  dwelt 
more  complainingly  on  his  persistence  in  eccentric  habits 
— so  exceedingly  unlike  other  people,  quitting  London  at 
the  very  height  of  the  season,  going  without  even  a  ser- 
vant nobody  knew  where  :  she  did  not  wish  to  wound  his 
feelings,  but  still  those  were  not  the  ways  natural  to  a 
young  gentleman  of  station.  If  he  had  no  respect  for  him- 
self, iie  ought  to  have  some  consideration  for  his  parents, 
especially  his  poor  mother.  She  then  proceeded  to  com- 
ment on  the  elegant  manners  of  Leopold  Travers,  and  the 
good  sense  and  pleasant  conversation  of  Chillingly  Gordon, 
a  young  man  of  whom  any  mother  might  be  proud.  From 
that  subject  she  diverged  to  mildly  querulous  references  to 
family  matters.  Parson  John  had  expressed  himself  very 
rudely  to  Mr.  Chillingly  Gordon  upon  some  books  by  a 
foreigner — Comte,  or  Count,  or  some  such  name — in  which, 
so  far  as  she  could  pretend  to  judge,  Mr.  Gordon  had 
uttered  some  very  benevolent  sentiments  about  humanity, 


KENELM  C HILLING LY.  363 

which,  in  the  most  insolent  manner,  Parson  John  had  de- 
nounced as  an  attack  on  religion.  But  really  Parson  John 
was  too  High  Church  for  her.  Having  thus  disposed  of 
Parson  John,  she  indulged  some  ladylike  wailings  on  the 
singular  costume  of  the  three  Miss  Chillinglys.  They  had 
bee.  tisked  by  Sir  Peter,  unknown  to  her — so  like  him — to 
meet  their  guests  ;  to  meet  Lady  Glenalvon  and  Miss  Trav- 
ers,  whose  dress  was  so  perfect  (here  she  described  their 
dress) — and  they  came  in  pea-green  with  pelerines  of  mock 
blonde,  and  Miss  Sally  with  corkscrew  ringlets  and  a  wreath 
of  jessamine,  "which  no  girl  after  eighteen  would  venture 
to  wear." 

-"But,  my  dear,"  added  her  ladyship,  "your  poor  father's 
family  are  certainly  great  oddities.  I  have  more  to  put  up 
with  than  any  one  knows.  I  do  my  best  to  carry  it  off.  I 
know  my  duties,  and  will  do  them." 

Family  grievances  thus  duly  recorded  and  lamented, 
Lady  Chillingly  returned  to  her  guests. 

Evidently  unconscious  of  her  husband's  designs  on 
Cecilia,  she  dismissed  her  briefly :  "  A  very  handsome 
young  lady,  though  rather  too  blonde  for  her  taste,  and  cer- 
tainly with  an  air  distingue.''  Lastly,  she  enlarged  on  the 
extreme  pleasure  she  felt  on  meeting  again  the  friend  of  her 
youth.  Lady  Glenalvon. 

"  iSjot  at  all  spoilt  by  the  education  of  the  great  world, 
which,  alas  !  obedient  to  the  duties  of  wife  and  mother, 
however  little  my  sacrifices  are  appreciated,  I  have  long 
since  relinquished.  Lady  Glenalvon  suggests  turning  that 
hideous  old  moat  into  a  fernery — a  great  improvement.  Of 
course  your  poor  father  makes  objections." 

Tom's  letter  was  written  on  black-edged  paper,  and  ran 
thus  : 

"  Dear  Sir, — Since  I  !iad  tlie  honor  to  see  you  in  London  I  liave  liad  a 
sad  loss — my  poor  uncle  is  no  more.  He  died  very  suddenly,  after  a  hearty 
supper.  One  doctor  says  it  was  apoplexy,  another  valvular  disease  of  the 
heart.  He  has  left  me  his  heir,  after  providing  for  his  sister — no  one  had  an 
idea  that  he  had  saved  so  much  money.  I  am  quite  a  rich  man  nowr.  And  I 
shall  leave  the  veterinary  business,  which  of  late— since  I  took  to  reading,  as 
you  kindly  advised — is  not  much  to  my  hking.  The  principal  corn-mercliant 
here  has  offered  to  take  me  into  partnership  ;  and,  from  what  I  can  see,  it 
will  be  a  very  good  thing,  and  a  great  rise  in  life.  But,  sir,  I  can't  settle  to 
it  at  present — I  can't  settle,  as  I  would  wish,  to  anything.  I  know  you  will 
not  laugh  at  me  when  I  say  I  have  a  strange  longing  to  travel  for  awhile.  I 
have  been  reading  books  of  travels,  and  they  get  into  my  head  more  than  any 
other  books.  But  I  don't  think  I  cnuld  leave  the  country  with  a  contented 
heart,  till  I  have  had  just  another  look  at  you  know  whom — just  to  see  her 


364  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

and  know  she  is  happy.  I  am  sure  I  could  sliake  liaiids  with  Will,  and 
kiss  her  little  one  vvitliout  a  wrong  thought.  What  do  you  say  to  tliat,  dear 
sir?  \ o\x  promised  to  write  to  me  ai)out  Her.  But  I  have  not  heard  from 
you.  Susy,  tlie  little  j;iil  with  the  llouer  ball,  has  had  a  loss  too — the  jioor 
old  man  she  lived  with  died  witiiinafew  days  (jf  my  dear  umle's  decease. 
Mother  moved  here,  as  I  think  you  know,  when  the  forge  at  IJravesleigh  was 
S'ld  ;  and  she  is  going  to  take  Susy  to  live  with  her.  She  is  quite  fond  of 
Susy,  Pray  let  me  hear  from  you  soon,  and  do,  dear  sir,  give  me  your  ad- 
vice about  travelling — and  about  Her.  You  see,  I  should  like  Her  to  think 
of  me  more  kindly  when  1  am  in  distant  parts 

*•  I  remain,  dear  sir, 

"  Your  grateful  servant, 

"T.  Bowles. 

"  P.  S. — Miss  Travers  has  sent  me  Will's  last  remittance.  There  is  very 
little  owed  me  now;  so  they  must  be  thriving.  1  hope  She  is  not  over- 
worked." 

On  returning  by  the  train  that  evening,  Kenelm  went 
to  the  house  of  Will  Somers.  The  shop  wasah-eady  ck-sed, 
but  he  was  admitted  by  a  trusty  servant-maid  to  the  parlor, 
where  he  found  them  all  at  supper,  except  indeed  the  baby, 
who  had  long  since  retired  to  the  cradle,  and  the  cradle  had 
been  removed  iip-stairs.  Will  and  Jessie  were  very  proud 
when  Kenelm  invited  himself  to  share  their  repast,  which, 
though  simple,  was  by  no  means  a  bad  one.  When  the 
meal  was  over  and  the  suppcr-tliings  removed,  Kenelm  drew 
his  chair  near  to  the  glass  door  which  led  into  a  little  gar- 
den very  neatly  kept — for  it  was  Will's  pride  to  attend  to  it 
— before  he  sat  down  to  his  more  professional  work.  The 
door  was  open,  and  admitted  the  coolness  of  the  starlit  air 
and  the  fragrance  of  the  sleeping  flowers. 

"You  have  a  pleasant  home  here,  Mrs.  Somers." 

"  We  have,  indeed,  and  know  how  to  bless  him  we  owe 
it  to." 

"  I  am  rejoiced  to  think  that.  IIow  often  when  God  de- 
signs a  special  kindness  to  us  He  puts  the  kindness  into 
the  heart  of  a  fellow-man — perhaps  the  last  fellow-man  we 
should  have  thought  of ;  but  in  blessing  him  we  thank  God 
who  inspired  him.  Now,  my  dear  friends,  I  know  that  you 
all  three  suspect  me  of  being  the  agent  whom  God  chose 
for  His  benefits.  You  fancy  that  it  was  from  me  came  the 
loan  which  enabled  you  to  leave  Gravelcigh  and  settle  here. 
You  arc  mistaken — you  look  incredulous." 

"  It  could  not  be  the  Squire,"  exclaimed  Jessie.  "Miss 
Travers  assured  me  that  it  was  neither  he  nor  herself.  Oh, 
it  must  be  you,  sir,     I  beg  pardon,  but  who  else  could  it  be  ?  " 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  365 

"Your  husband  shall  guess.  Suppose,  Will,  that  you 
had  behaved  ill  to  some  one  who  was  nevertheless  dear  to 
yju,  and  on  thinking  over  it  afterwards  felt  very  sorry  and 
much  ashamed  of  yourself,  and  suppose  that  later  you  had 
an  opportunity  and  the  power  to  render  a  service  to  that 
person,  do  you  think  you  would  do  it?" 

"  I  should  be  a  bad  man  if  I  did  not." 

"  Bravo  !  And  supposing  that  when  the  person  you  thus 
served  came  to  know  it  was  you  who  rendered  the  service, 
he  did  not  feel  thankful,  he  did  not  think  it  handsome  of 
you  thus  to  repair  any  little  harm  he  might  have  done  you 
before,  but  became  churlish,  and  sore,  and  cross-grained, 
and  with  a  wretclied  false  pride  said  that  because  he  had 
ofifended  you  "once  he  resented  your  taking  the  liberty  of 
befriending  him  now,  would  not  you  tliink  that  person  an 
ungrateful  fellow — ungrateful  not  only  to  you  his  fellow- 
man — that  is  of  less  moment — but  ungrateful  to  the  God 
who  put  it  into  your  heart  to  be  His  human  agent  in  the 
benefit  received  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,  yes,  certainly,"  said  Will,  with  all  the  superior 
refinement  of  his  intellect  to  that  of  Jessie,  unaware  of  what 
Kenelm  was  driving  at  ;  while  Jessie,  pressing  her  hands 
tightly  together,  turning  pale,  and  with  a  frightened  hur- 
ried glance  towards  Will's  face,  answered  impulsively  : 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Chillingly,  I  hope  you  are  not  thinking,  not 
speaking  of  Mr.  Bowles  ?  " 

"Whom  else  should  I  think  or  speak  of?" 

Will  rose  nervously  from  his  chair,  all  his  features  writh- 
ing. 

"  Sir,  sir,  this  is  a  bitter  blow— very  bitter,  very  !  " 

Jessie  rushed  to  Will,  flung  her  arms  around  him,  and 
sobbed. 

Kenelm  turned  quietly  to  old  Mrs.  Somers,  who  had  sus- 
pended the  work  on  which  since  supper  she  had  been  em- 
ployed, knitting  socks  for  the  baby. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Somers,  what  is  the  good  of  being  a 
grandmother  and  knitting  socks  for  baby  grandchildren,  if 
you  cannot  assure  those  silly  children  of  yours  that  they  are 
too  happy  in  each  other  to  harbor  any  resentment  against  a 
man  who  would  have  parted  them  and  now  repents?" 

Somewhat  to  Kenelm's  admiration,  I  dare  not  say  sur- 
prise, old  Mrs.  Somers,  thus  appealed  to,  rose  from  her 
seat,  and,  with  a  dignity  of  thought  or  of  feeling  no  one 
could  have  anticipated  from  the  quiet  peasant  woman,  ap- 


366  KEiXELM   CHILLINGI.Y. 

preached  the  wedded  pair,  lifted  Jessie's  face  with  one  hand, 
laid  the  other  on  Will's  head,  and  said,  "  If  you  don't  long  to 
see  Mr.  Bowles  again  and  say  '  the  Lord  bless  you,  sir  ! '  you 
don't  deserve  the  Lord's  blessing  upon  you."  Therewith  she 
went  back  to  her  seat,  and  resumed  her  knitting. 

"Thank  Heaven,  we  have  paid  back  the  best  part  of  the 
loan,"  said  Will,  in  very  agitated  tones,  "and  I  tlnnk,  with  a 
little  pinching,  and  with  selling  off  some  of  the  stock,  we 
might  pay  the  rest  ;  and  then  "—and  then  he  turned  to  Ken- 
elm— "and  then,  sir,  we  will"  (here  a  gulp)  "thank  Mr. 
Bowles."  ■ 

"  This  don't  satisfy  me  at  all,  Will,"  answered  Kenelm  ; 
'  and  since  1  helped  to  bring  you  two  together,  I  claim  the 
i,ght  to  say  I  would  never  have  done  so  could  I  have  guessed 
you  could  have  trusted  your  wife  so  little  as  to  allow  a  re- 
memL>rance  of  Mr.  Bowles  to  be  a  thought  of  pain.  You  did 
not  feel  humiliated  when  you  imagined  that  it  was  to  me  you 
owed  soxne  moneys  which  you  have  been  honestly  paying 
off.  Well,  then,  I  will  lend  you  whatever  trifle  remains  to 
discharge  your  whole  debts  to  Mr.  Bowles,  so  that  you  may 
sooner  be  able  to  say  to  him,  '  Thank  you.'  But,  between  you 
and  me.  Will,  1  think  you  will  be  a  finer  fellow  and  a  manlier 
fellow  if  you  decline  to  borrow  that  trifle  of  me ;  if  you  feel 
you  would  rather  say  'Thank  you'  to  Mr.  Bowles,  without 
the  silly  notion  thai  when  you  have  paid  him  his  money  you 
owe  him  nothing  for  Ms  kindness." 

Will  looked  away,  irresolutely.  Kenelm  Avent  on  :  - "  I 
have  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Bowles  to-day.  lie  has  come 
into  a  fortune,  and  thinks  of  going  abroad  for  a  time  ;  but 
before  he  goes,  he  says,  he  should  like  to  shake  hands  with 
Will,  and  be  assured  by  Jessie  that  all  his  old  rudeness  is  for- 
given. He  had  no  notion  that  I  should  blab  about  the  loan  ; 
he  wished  that  to  remain  always  a  secret.  But  between 
friends  there  need  be  no  secrets.  What  say  you.  Will  ?  As 
head  of  this  household,  shall  Mr.  Bowles  be  welcomed  here 
as  a  friend  or  not .''" 

"  Kindly  welcome,"  said  old  Mrs.  Somers,  looking  up 
from  the  socks. 

"Sir,"  said  Will,  with  sudden  energy,  "look  here  ;  you 
have  never  been  in  love,  1  daresay.  If  you  had,  you  would 
not  be  so  hard  on  me.  Mr.  Bowles  was  in  love  with  my  wife 
there.     Mr.  Bowles  is  a  verv  fine  man,  and  1  am  a  cripple." 

"Oh,  Will!    Will!"    cried  Jessie. 

"But  I  trust  my  wife  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul  ;  and 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  367 

now  that  the  first  pang  is  over,  Mr.  Bowles  shall  be,  as 
mother  says,  kindly  welcome — heartily  welcome." 

"  Shake  hands.  Now  you  speak  like  a  man,  Will.  I 
hope  to  bring-  Bowles  here  to  supper  before  many  days  are 
over." 

And  that  night  Kenelm  wrote  to  Mr.  Bowles  : 

"My  DEAR  Tom,— Come  and  spend  a  few  days  with  meat  Cromwell 
Lodge,  Moleswich.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Somerswish  much  to  see  you  and  to  thank 
you.  I  could  not  remain  forever  degraded  in  order  to  gratify  your  wlnni. 
They  would  have  it  that  I  bought  tlieir  shop,  etc.,  and  I  was  forced  in  self-de- 
fence to  say  who  it  was.     More  on  this  and  on  travels  when  you  come. 

"Your  true  friend, 

"K.  C." 


CHAPTER   XVI. 


Mrs.  Cameron  was  seated  alone  in  her  pretty  drawing- 
room,  Avith  a  book  lying  open,  but  unheeded,  on  her  lap. 
She  was  looking  away  from  its  pages,  seemingly  into  the 
garden  without,  but  rather  into  empty  space. 

To  a  very  acute  and  practised  observer,  there  was  in  her 
countenance  an  expression  which  baffled  the  common  eye. 

To  the  common  eye  it  was  simply  vacant  ;  the  expression 
of  a  quiet,  humdrum  woinan,  who  might  have  been  thinking 
of  some  quiet  hiundrum  household  detail,  f(jund  that  too 
much  for  lier,  and  was  now  not  thinking  at  all. 

But  to  the  true  observer,  there  were  in  that  face  indica- 
tions of  a  troubled  past,  still  haunted  with  ghosts  never  to 
be  laid  at  rest  ;  indications  too  of  a  character  in  herself  that 
had  undergone  some  revolutionary  change  ;  it  had  not  al- 
ways been  the  character  of  a  woman  quiet  and  humdrum. 
The  delicate  outlines  of  the  lip  and  nostril  evinced  sensibil- 
ity, and  the  deep  and  downward  curve  of  it  bespoke  habitual 
sadness.  The  softness  of  the  look  into  space  did  not  tell  of 
a  vacant  mind,  but  rather  of  a  mind  subdued  and  overbur- 
dened by  the  wight  of  a  secret  sorrow.  There  was  also 
about  her  whole  presence,  in  the  very  quiet  which  made  her 
prevalent  external  characteristic,  the  evidence  of  manners 
formed  in  a  high-bred  society — the  society  in  which  quiet  is 
connected  with  dignity  and  grace.  The  poor  understood 
this  better  than  her  rich  acquaintances  at  Moleswich,  wheri 
they  said,  "  Mrs.  Cameron  was  every  inch  a  lady."    To  judge 


36S  KENELM   C/ffLLLVGLY. 

by  her  features,  she  must  once  have  been  pretty, — not  a 
showy  prettiness,  but  decidedly  pretty.  Now,  as  the  features 
wt-re  small,  all  prettiness  had  faded  away  in  cold  gray  color- 
in"-s,  and  a  sort  of  tamed  and  slumbering  timidity  of  aspect. 
She  was  not  only  not  demonstrative,  but  must  liave  imposed 
on  herself  as  a  duty  the  suppression  of  demonstration.  Who 
could  look  at  the  formation  of  those  lips  and  not  see  tiiat 
they  belonged  to  the  nervous,  quick,  demonstrative  temper- 
ament ?  And  yet,  observing  her  again  more  closely,  that 
suppressionof  the  constitutional  tendency  to  candid  betrayal 
of  emotion  would  the  more  enlist  your  curiosity  or  interest ; 
because,  if  physiognomy  and  phrenology  have  any  truth  in 
them,  there  was  little  strength  in  her  character.  In  the 
womanly  yieldingness  of  the  short  curved  upper  lip,  the 
pleading  timidity  of  the  regard,  the  disproportionate  but  ele- 
gant slenderness  of  the  head  between  the  ear  and  the  neck, 
there  were  the  tokens  of  one  who  cannot  resist  the  will,  per- 
haps the  whim,  of  another  whom  she  either  loves  or  trusts. 
The  book  open  on  her  lap  is  a  serious  book,  on  the  doc- 
trine of  grace,  written  by  a  popular  clergyman  of  what  is 
termed  "  the  Low  Church."  She  seldom  read  any  but  serious 
books,  except  where  such  care  as  she  gave  to  Lily's  education 
compelled  her  to  read  "  Outlines  of  History  and  Geography," 
or  the  elementary  French  books  used  in  seminaries  for  young 
ladies.  Yet  if  any  one  had  decoyed  Mrs.  Cameron  into 
familiar  conversation,  he  would  have  discovered  that  she 
must  early  have  received  the  education  given  to  young  ladies 
of  station.  She  could  speak  and  write  French  and  Italian  as 
a  native.  She  had  read,  and  still  remembered,  such  classic 
authors  in  either  language  as  are  conceded  to  the  use  of 
pupils  by  the  well-regulated  taste  of  orthodox  governesses. 
She  had  a  knowledge  of  botany,  such  as  botany  was  taught 
twenty  years  ago.  I  am  not  sure  that,  if  her  memor)'  had 
been  fairly  aroused,  she  might  not  have  come  out  strong  in 
divinity  and  political  economy,  as  expounded  by  the  popular 
manuals  of  Mrs.  Marcet.  In  short,  you  could  sec  in  her  a 
thoroughbred  English  lady,  who  had  been  taught  in  a  gen- 
eration before  Lily's,  and  immeasurably  superior  in  culture 
to  the  ordinary  run  of  English  young  ladies  taught  nowadays. 
So,  in  what  after  all  are  very  minor  accomplishments — now 
made  major  accomplishments— such  as  music,  it  was  impos- 
sible that  a  connoisseur  should  hear  her  play  on  the  piano 
without  remarking,  "  That  woman  has  had  the  best  masters 
of  her  time."     She  could  only  play  pieces  that  belonged  to 


KEN  ELM   CHILLIXGLY.  369 

her  a;eneration.  Slie  had  learned  nothinof  since.  In  short, 
the  whole  intellectual  culture  had  come  to  a  dead  stop  long 
years  ago,  perhaps  before  Lily  was  born. 

Now,  while  she  is  gazing  into  space,  Mrs.  Braefield  is  an- 
noimced.  Mrs.  Cameron  does  not  start  from  reverie.  She 
never  starts.  But  she  makes  a  weary  movement  of  annoy- 
ance, resettles  herself,  and  lays  the  serious  book  on  the  sofa 
table.  Elsie  enters,  young,  radiant,  dressed  in  all  the  per- 
fection of  the  fashion,  that  is,  as  ungracefully  as  in  the  eyes 
of  an  artist  any  gentlewoman  can  be  ;  but  rich  merchants 
who  are  proud  of  their  wives  so  insist,  and  their  wives,  in  that 
respect,  submissively  obey  them. 

The  ladies  interchange  customary  salutations,  enter  into 
the  customary  preliminaries  of  talk,  and,  after  a  pause,  Elsie 
begins  in  earnest. 

"  But  shan't  I  see  Lily  ?     Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  I  fear  she  is  gone  into  the  town.  A  poor  little  boy,  who 
did  our  errands,  has  met  with  an  accident — fallen  from  a 
cherry-tree." 

"  Which  he  was  robbing  ?  " 

"  Probably." 

'■'And  Lily  has  gone  to  lecture  him  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  as  to  that  ;  but  he  is  much  hurt,  and  Lily 
has  gone  to  see  what  is  the  matter  with  him." 

Mrs.  Braefield,  in  her  frank  outspoken  way  :  "  I  don't 
take  much  to  girls  of  Lily's  age  in  general,  though  I  am  pas- 
sionately fond  of  children.  You  know  how  I  do  take  to  Lily  ; 
perhaps  because  she  is  so  like  a  child.  But  she  must  be  an 
anxious  charge  to  you." 

Mrs.  Cameron  replied  by  an  anxious  "No.  She  is  still 
a  child,  a  very  good  one  ;  why  should  I  be  anxious  ?  " 

Mrs.  Braefield,  impulsively  :  "  Why,  your  child  must  now 
be  eighteen." 

Mrs.  Cameron  :  "  Eighteen — is  it  possible  !  How  time 
flies  !  though  in  a  life  so  monotonous  as  mine,  time  does 
not  seem  to  fly  :  it  slips  on  like  the  lapse  of  water.  Let  me 
think — eighteen  ?  No,  she  is  but  seventeen — seventeen  last 
May." 

Mrs.  Braefield  :  "Seventeen  !  A  very  anxious  age  for  a 
girl  ;  an  age  in  which  dolls  cease  and  lovers  begin." 

Mrs.  Cameron,  not  so  languidly,  but  still  quietly  :  "  Lily 
never  cared  much  for  dolls  — never  much  for  lifeless  pets  ; 
and  as  to  lovers,  she  does  not  dream  of  them." 

Mrs.    Braefield,  briskly:   "There  is  no  age  after  six  in 


370  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

wliich  girls  do  not  dream  of  lovers.  And  liere  another  ques- 
tion arises.  When  a  girl  so  lovely  as  Lily  is  eighteen  next 
birthday,  may  not  a  lover  dream  of  her  ?  " 

Mrs.  Cameron,  with  that  wintry  cold  tranquillity  of  man- 
ner which  implies  that  in  putting  such  questions  an  inter- 
rogator is  taking  a  liberty  :  "  As  no  lover  has  appeared,  I 
cannot  trouble  myself  about  his  dreams." 

Said  Elsie,  inly  to  herself,  "  This  is  the  stupidest  woman 
I  ever  met!"  and  aloud  to  Mrs.  Cameron:  *'Do  you  not 
tliink  that  your  neighbor  Mr.  Chillingly  is  a  very  fine  young 
man  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  he  would  be  generally  considered  so.  He 
is  very  tall." 

"  A  handsome  face  ? " 

"  Handsome,  is  it  ?     I  dare  say." 

"What  does  Lily  say?" 

"  About  what  ?  " 

"About  Mr.  Chillingly.  Does  she  not  think  him  hand- 
some ? " 

"  I  never  asked  her." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Cameron,  would  it  not  be  a  very  pretty 
match  for  Lily  ?  The  Chillinglys  arc  among  the  oldest  fami- 
lies in  '  Burke's  Landed  Gentry,'  and  I  believe  his  father,  Sir 
Peter,  has  a  considerable  property." 

For  the  first  time  in  this  conversation,  Mrs.  Cameron  be- 
trayed emotion.  A  sudden  flush  overspread  her  counte- 
nance, and  then  left  it  paler  than  before.  After  a  pause  she 
recovered  her  accustomed  composure,  and  replied, rudely  : 

"  It  would  be  no  friend  to  Lily  who  could  put  such  no- 
tions into  her  head  ;  and  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that 
they  have  entered  into  Mr.  Chillingly's." 

"Would  you  be  sorry  if  they  did  ?  Surely  you  would  like 
your  niece  to  marry  well  ;  and  there  are  few  chances  of  her 
doing  so  at  Moleswicli." 

"Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Braefield,  but  the  question  of  Lily's 
marriage  I  have  never  discussed,  even  with  her  guardian. 
Nor,  considering  the  childlike  nature  of  her  tastes  and  habits, 
rather  than  the  years  she  has  numbered,  can  I  think  the  time 
has  yet  come  for  discussing  it  at  all." 

Elsie,  thus  rebuked,  changed  the  subject  to  some  news- 
paper topic  which  interested  the  public  mind  at  the  moment, 
and  very  soon  rose  to  depart.  Mrs.  Cameron  detained  the 
hand  that  her  visitor  held  out,  and  said  in  low  tones,  which, 
though  embarrassed,  were  evidently  earnest,  "  My  dear  Mrs. 


KEh^ELM   CHILLINGLY.  371 

Braeficld,  let  me  trust  to  your  good  sense  and  the  affection 
with  which  you  have  honored  my  niece,  not  to  incur  the  rislc 
of  unsettling  her  mind  by  a  hint  of  the  ambitious  projects 
for  her  future  on  which  you  have  spol<en  to  me.  It  is  ex- 
tremely improbable  that  a  young  man  of  Mr.  Chillingly's 
expectations  would  entertain  any  serious  thoughts  of  mar- 
rying out  of  his  own  sphere  of  life,  and " 

"  Stop,  Mrs.  Cameron.  I  must  interrupt  you.  Lily's  per- 
sonal attractions  and  grace  of  manner  would  adorn  any  sta- 
tion ;  and  have  I  not  rightly  understood  you  to  say  that 
though  her  guardian,  Mr.  Melville  is,  as  we  all  know,  a  man 
who  has  risen  above  the  rank  of  his  parents,  your  niece, 
Miss  Mordaunt,  is,  like  yourself,  by  birth  a  gentlewoman  ?  " 

"  Yes,  by  birth  a  gentlewoman,"  said  Mrs.  Cameron,  rais- 
ing her  head  with  a  sudden  pride.  But  she  added,  with  as 
sudden  a  change  to  a  sort  of  freezing  humility,  "  What  does 
that  matter?  A  girl  without  fortune,  without  connection, 
b.-oaght  up  in  this  little  cottage,  the  ward  of  a  professional 
artist,  who  was  the  son  of  a  city  clerk,  to  whom  she  owes 
even  the  home  she  has  found,  is  not  in  the  same  sphere  of  life 
as  Mr.  Chillingly,  and  his  parents  could  not  approve  of  such 
an  alliance  for  him.  It  would  be  most  cruel  to  her  if  you 
were  to  change  the  innocent  pleasure  she  may  take  in  the 
conversation  of  a  clever  and  well-informed  stranger  into  the 
troubled  interest  which,  since  you  remind  me  of  her  age,  a 
girl  even  so  cliildlike  and  beautiful  as  Lily  might  conceive  in 
one  represented  to  her  as  the  possible  partner  of  her  life. 
Don't  commit  that  cruelty  ;  don't — don't,  I  implore  you!" 

"  Trust  me,"  cried  the  warm-hearted  Elsie,  with  tears  rush- 
ing to  her  eyes.  "  What  you  say  so  sensibly,  so  nobly,  never 
struck  me  before.  I  do  not  know  much  of  the  world  knew 
nothing  of  it  till  I  married — and  being  very  fond  of  Lily,  and 
having  a  strong  regard  for  Mr.  Chillingly,  I  fancied  I  could 
not  serve  both  better  than — than — but  I  see  now  ;  he  is  very 
young,  very  peculiar  ;  his  parents  might  object,  not  to  Lily 
herself,  but  to  the  circumstances  you  name.  And  you  would 
not  wish  her  to  enter  any  family  where  she  was  not  as 
cordially  welcomed  as  she  deserves  to  be.  I  am  glad  to  have 
had  this  talk  with  you.  Happilv,  I  have  done  no  mischief 
as  yet.  I  will  do  none.  I  had  come  to  propose  an  excursion 
to  the  remains  of  the  Roman  Villa,  some  miles  off,  and  to 
invite  you  and  Mr.  Chillingly.  I  will  no  longer  try  to  bring 
him  and  Lily  together." 

"  Thank  you.     But  you  still  misconstrue  me.     I  do  not 


372  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGL  Y. 

tliink  lh:it  I-ily  cares  lialf  so  much  for  Mr.  Cliillingly  as  she 
does  for  a  new  butterlly.  I  do  not  fear  their  coming  to- 
gether, as  you  call  it,  in  the  light  in  which  she  now  regards 
him,  and  in  which,  from  all  I  observe,  he  regards  her.  My 
only  fear  is  that  a  hint  might  lead  her  to  regard  him  in 
another  way,  and  that  way  impossible." 

Elsie  left  the  house,  extremely  bewildered,  and  with  a 
profound  contempt  for  Mrs.  Cameron's  knowledge  of  what 
may  happen  to  two  young  persons  *'  brought  together." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


Now,  on  that  very  day,  and  about  the  same  hour  in 
which  the  conversation  just  recorded  between  Elsie  and  Mrs. 
Cameron  took  place,  Kenelm,  in  his  solitary  noondav  wan- 
derings, entered  the  burial-ground  in  which  Lily  had,  some 
short  time  before,  surprised  him.  And  there  he  found  her, 
standing  beside  the  flower-border  which  she  had  placed  round 
the  grave  of  the  child  whom  she  had  tended  and  nursed  in 
vain. 

The  day  was  clouded  and  sunless  ;  one  of  those  days  that 
so  often  instill  a  sentiment  of  melancholy  into  the  heart  of 
an  English  summer. 

"  You  come  here  too  often.  Miss  Mordaunt,"  said  Kenelm 
very  softly,  as  he  approached. 

Lily  turned  her  face  to  him,  without  any  start  of  surprise, 
with  no  brightening  change  in  its  pensive  expression^an 
expression  rare  to  the  mobile  play  of  her  feature's. 

"  Not  too  often  I  promised  to  come  as  often  as  I  could  ; 
and,  as  I  told  you  before,  I  have  never  broken  a  promise  yet." 

Kenelm  made  no  answer.  Presently  the  girl  turned  from 
the  spot,  and  Kenelm  followed  her  silently  till  slie  halted 
before  the  old  tombstone  with  its  effaced  inscription. 

"See,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  smile,  "I  have  put  fresh 
flowers  there.  Since  the  day  we  met  in  this  churchyard,  I 
have  thought  much  of  that  tomb,  so  neglected,  so  forgotten, 
and  " — she  paused  a  moment,  and  went  on  abruptly, —  "do 
you  not  often  find  that  vou  are  much  too — what  is  the  word  ? 
ah  !  too  egotistical,  considering,  and  pondering,  and  dream- 
ing greatly  too  much  about  yourself  ?" 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  373 

"Yes,  you  are  right  there;  though,  till  you  so  accused 
me,  my  conscience  did  not  detect  it." 

"  And  don't  you  find  that  you  escape  from  being  so  haunt- 
ed by  the  tliought  of  yourself,  when  you  think  of  the  dead  ? 
they  can  never  have  any  share  in  your  existence  hci-c.  When 
you  say,  '  I  shall  do  this  or  that  to-day  ;'  when  you  dream, 
'  I  may  be  this  or  that  to-morrow,'  you  are  thinking  and 
dreaming,  all  by  yourself,  for  yourself.  But  you  are  out  of 
yourself,  beyond  3-ourself,  when  you  think  and  dream  of  the 
dead,  who  can  have  nothing  to  do  with  your  to-day  or  your 
to-morrow." 

As  we  all  know,  Kenelm  Chillingly  made  it  one  of  the 
rules  of  his  life  never  to  be  taken  by  surprise.  But  when 
the  speech  I  have  written  down  came  from  the  lips  of  that 
tamer  of  butterflies,  he  was  so  startled  that  all  it  occurred  to 
him  to  say,  after  a  long  pause,  was  : 

"  The  dead  are  the  past  ;  and  wnth  the  past  rests  all  in  the 
present  or  the  future  that  can  take  us  out  of  our  natural 
selves.  The  past  decides  our  present.  By  the  past  we  divine 
our  future.  History,  poetry,  science,  the  Avelfare  of  states, 
the  advancement  of  individuals,  are  all  connected  with  tomb- 
stones of  which  inscriptions  are  effaced.  You  are  right  to 
honor  the  mouldered  tombstones  with  fresh  flowers.  It  is 
only  in  the  companionship  of  the  dead  that  one  ceases  to  be 
an  egotist." 

If  the  imperfectly  educated  Lily  had  been  above  the  quick 
comprehension  of  the  academical  Kenelm  in  her  speech,  so 
Kenelm  was  now  above  the  comprehension  of  Lily.  She  too 
paused  before  she  replied  : 

"  If  I  knew  you  better,  I  think  I  could  understand  you 
better.  I  wish  you  knew  Lion.  I  should  like  to  hear  you 
talk  with  him." 

While  thus  conversing,  they  had  left  the  burial-ground, 
and  Avere  in  the  pathway  trodden  by  the  common  wayfarer. 

Lily  resumed. 

"  Yes,  I  should  so  like  to  hear  you  talk  with  Lion." 

"You  mean  your  guardian,  Mr.  Melville." 

"  Yes,  you  know  that." 

"  And  why  should  you  like  to  hear  me  talk  to  him  ? " 

"  Because  there  are  some  things  in  which  I  doubt  if  he 
was  altogether  right,  and  I  would  ask  vou  to  express  my 
doubts  to  him  ;  you  would,  would  not  you  ?  " 

'*  But  why  can  you  not  express  them  yourself  to  your 
guardian  ?     Are  you  afraid  of  him  ? " 


374  KEN  ELM   C//ILLLVGLY. 

"Afraid  ?  no  indeed  !     But — ah,  how  many  people  there 
are  coming  this  way  !     Tlierc  is  some  tiresome  public  meet 
ing  in  tlie  town  to-day.      Let  us  talce  the  ferry  :  the  other 
side  of  the  stream  is  much  pleasanter,  we  shall  have  it  more 
to  ourselves." 

Turning  aside  to  the  right  while  she  thus  spoke,  Lily 
descended  a  gradual  slope  to  the  margin  of  the  stream,  on 
which  they  found  an  old  man  dozily  reclined  in  his  ferry- 
boat. 

As,  seated  side  by  side,  they  were  slowly  borne  over  the 
still  waters  under  a  sunless  sky,  Kenelm  would  have  renewed 
the  subject  which  his  companion  had  begun,  but  she  shook 
her  head,  with  a  significant  glance  at  the  ferryman.  Evi- 
dently what  she  had  to  say  was  too  confidential  to  admit  of 
a  listener,  not  that  the  old  ferryman  seemed  likely  to  take 
the  trouble  of  listening  to  any  talk  that  was  not  addressed 
to  him.  Lily  soon  did  address  her  talk  to  him.  "So, 
Brown,  the  cow  has  quite  recovered." 

**  Yes,  Miss,  thanks  to  you,  and  God  bless  you.  To  think 
of  your  beating  the  old  witch  like  that  !  " 

"  "Tis  not  I  who  beat  the  witch.  Brown  ;  'tis  the  fairy. 
Fairies,  you  know,  are  much  more  powerful  than  witches." 

"So  I  find,  Miss." 

Lily  here  turned  to  Kenelm.  "Mr.  Brown  has  a  very 
nice  milch  cow  tliat  was  suddenly  taken  very  ill,  and  both 
lie  and  his  wife  were  convinced  that  the  cow  was  bewitched  " 

"Of  course  it  were;  that  stands  to  reason.  Did  not 
Mother  Wright  tell  my  old  woman  that  she  would  repent 
of  selling  milk,  and  abuse  her  dreadful  ?  and  was  not  the 
cow  taken  with  shivers  that  very  night  ?" 

"Gently,  Brown.  Mother  Wright  did  not  say  that  your 
wife  would  repent  of  selling  milk,  but  of  putting  water  into 
it." 

"And  how  did  she  know  that,  if  she  was  not  a  witch  ? 
We  have  the  best  of  customers  among  the  gentlefolks,  and 
never  an  one  that  complained." 

"And,"  answered  Lily  to  Kenelm,  unheeding  this  last  ob- 
servation, which  was  made  in  a  sullen  manner,  "Brown  had 
a  horrid  notion  of  enticing  Mother  Wright  into  his  ferry-boat 
and  throwing  her  into  the  water,  in  order  to  break  the  spell 
upon  the  cow.  But  I  consulted  the  fairies,  and  gave  him  a 
fairy  charm  to  tie  round  the  cow's  neck.  And  the  cow  is 
quite  well  now,  ycju  see.  So,  Brown,  there  was  no  necessity 
to  tlirow  Mother  Wright  into  the  water  because  she  said  you 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  375 

put  some  ot  it  into  the  milk.  But,"  she  added,  as  the  boat 
now  touched  the  opposite  bank,  "sliall  I  tell  you,  Brown, 
what  the  fairies  said  to  me  this  morning?" 

''  Do,  Miss." 

"  It  was  this  :  If  Brown's  cow  yields  milk  without  any 
water  in  it,  and  if  water  gets  into  it  when  the  milk  is  sold,  we, 
the  fairies,  will  pinch  Mr.  Brown  black  and  blue  ;  and  when 
Brown  has  his  next  fit  of  rheumatics  he  must  not  look  to  the 
fairies  to  charm  it  away." 

Herewith  Lily  dropped  a  silver  groat  into  Brown's  hand, 
•and  sprang  lightly  ashore,  followed  by  Kenelm. 

"  You  have  quite  converted  him,  not  only  as  to  the 
existence,  but  as  to  the  beneficial  power,  of  fairies,"  said 
Kenelm. 

"  Ah,"  answered  Lily  very  gravely,  "  Ah,  but  would  it  not 
(be  nice  if  there  were  fairies  still  ?  good  fairies,  and  one  could 
^et  at  them  ?  tell  them  all  that  troubles  and  puzzles  us,  and 
vin  from  them  charms  against  the  witchcraft  we  practise  on 
ourselves  ? " 

"  I  doubt  if  it  would  be  good  for  us  to  rely  on  such  super- 
latural  counsellors.  Our  own  souls  are;so  boundless,  that 
^he  more  we  explore  them  the  more  we  shall  find  worlds 
spreading  upon  worlds  into  infinities  ;  and  among  the  worlds 
its  Fairyland."  He  added,  inly  to  himself,  "Am  I  not  in 
Fairyland  now  ? " 

"  Hush  ! "  whispered  Lily.  "  Don't  speak  more  yet 
awhile.  I  am  thinking  over  what  you  have  just  said,  and 
trying  to  understand  it." 

Thus,  walking  silently,  they  gained  the  little  summer- 
house  which  tradition  dedicated  to  the  memory  of  Izaak 
Walton. 

Lily  entered  it  and  seated  herself.  Kenelm  took  his  place 
beside  her.  It  was  a  small  octagon  building,  which,  judg- 
ing by  its  architecture,  might  have  been  built  in  the 
troubled  reign  of  Charles  I.  ;  the  walls  plastered  within 
were  thickly  covered  with  names,  and  dates,  and  inscrip- 
tions in  praise  of  angling,  in  tribute  to  Izaak,  or  with  quota- 
tions from  his  books.  On  the  opposite  side  they  could  see 
the  lawn  of  Grasmere,  with  its  great  willows  dipping  into 
the  water.  The  stillness  of  the  place,  with  its  associations 
of  the  angler's  still  life,  were  in  harmony  with  the  quiet 
day,  its  breezeless  air  and  cloud-vested  sky. 

"You  were  to  tell  me  vour  doubts  in  connection  with 
your  guardian,  doubts  if  he  were  right  in  something  which 


376  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

you  left  unexplained,  which  you  could  not  yourself  explain 
to  him." 

Lily  started  as  from  thoughts  alien  to  the  subject  thus 
reintroduced.  "  Yes,  I  cannot  mention  my  doubts  to  him, 
because  they  relate  to  me,  and  he  is  so  good.  I  owe  him  so 
mucli  that  I  could  not  bear  to  vex  him  by  a  word  that  might 
seem  like  reproach  or  complaint.  You  remember,"  here 
she  drew  nearer  to  him  ;  and,  with  that  ingenuous  confiding 
look  and  movement  which  had,  not  unfrequently,  enraptured 
him  at  the  moment,  and  saddened  him  on  rellection — too  in- 
genuous, too  confiding,  for  the  sentiment  with  which  he 
yearned  to  inspire  her — she  turned  towards  him  her  frank 
untimorous  eyes,  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  :  "You  re- 
member that  I  said  in  the  burial-ground  how  much  I  felt 
that  one  is  constantly  thinking  too  much  of  one's  self. 
That  must  be  wrong.  In  talking  to  you  only  about  myself 
I  know  I  am  wrong;  but  I  cannot  help  it,  I  must  do  so.  Bo 
not  think  ill  of  me  for  it.  You  see,  I  have  not  been  brought 
lip  like  other  girls.  Was  my  guardian  right  in  that  ?  Per- 
haps if  he  had  insisted  upon  not  letting  me  have  my  own 
wilful  way,  if  he  had  made  me  read  the  books  Avhich  Mr. 
and  iMrs.  Emlyn  wanted  to  force  on  me,  instead  of  the 
poems  and  fairy-tales  which  he  gave  me,  I  should  have  had 
so  much  more  to  think  of  that  I  should  have  thought  less  of 
myself.  You  said  that  the  dead  were  the  past  ;  one  forgets 
one's  self  when  one  thinks  of  the  dead.  If  I  had  read  more 
of  the  past,  had  more  subjects  of  interest  in  the  dead  whose 
history  it  tells,  surely  I  should  be  less  shut  up,  as  it  were, 
in  my  own  small,  selfish  heart.  It  is  only  very  lately  I  have 
thought  of  this,  only  very  lately  that  I  have  felt  sorrow  and 
shame  in  the  thought  that  I  am  so  ignorant  of  what  other 
girls  know,  even  little  Clcmmy.  And  I  dare  not  say  this  to 
Lion  when  I  see  him  next,  lest  he  should  blame  himself, 
when  he  only  meant  to  be  kind,  and  used  to  say,  '  I  don't 
want  Fairy  to  be  learned,  it  is  enough  for  me  to  think  she  is 
happy.'     And  oh,  I  was  so  hapjjy,  till — till  of  late!  " 

"Because  till  of  late  you  only  knew  yourself  as  a  child. 
But,  now  that  you  feel  the  desire  of  knowledge,  childhood 
is  vanishing.  Do  not  vex  yourself.  With  the  mind  which 
nature  has  bestowed  on  you,  such  learning  as  may  fit  you  to 
converse  with  those  dreaded  'grown-up  folks  '  will  come  to 
you  very  easily  and  very  quickly.  You  will  acquire  more  in 
a  month  now  than  you  would  have  acquired  in  a  year  when 
you  were  a  child  and  task-work  was  loathed,  not  courted. 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  377 

Your  aunt  is  evidently  well  instructed,  and  if  I  might 
venture  to  talk  to  her  about  tlie  choice  ol'  books " 

"  No,  don't  do  that.     Lion  would  not  like  it." 

"  Your  Q-uardian  would  not  like  you  to  have  the  educa- 
tion  common  to  other  young  ladies  ? ' 

"  Lion  forbade  my  aunt  to  teach  me  much  that  I  rather 
wished  to  learn.  She  wanted  to  do  so,  but  she  has  given  it 
up  at  his  wush.  She  only  now  teases  me  with  those  horrid 
French  verbs,  and  that  I  know  is  a  mere  make-belief.  Of 
course  on  Sunday  it  is  different  ;  then  I  must  not  read  any- 
thing but  the  Bible  and  sermons.  I  don't  care  so  much  for 
the  sermons  as  I  ought,  but  I  could  read  the  Bible  all  day, 
every  weekday  as  well  as  Sunday  ;  and  it  is  from  the  Bible 
that  I  learn  that  I  ou2:ht  to  think  less  about  mvself." 

Kenelm  involuntarily  pressed  the  little  hand  that  lay  so 
innocently  on  his  arm. 

"Do  you  know  the  difference  between  one  kind  of 
poeiry  and  another  ?  "  asked  Lily,  abruptly. 

"  I  am  not  sure.  I  ought  to  know  when  one  kind  is  good 
and  another  kind  is  bad.  But  in  that  respect  I  find  many 
people,  especially  professed  critics,  who  prefer  the  poetry 
which  I  call  bad  to  the  poetry  I  think  good." 

"  The  difference  between  one  kind  of  poetry  and  another, 
supposing  them  both  to  be  good,"  said  Lily  positively,  and 
with  an  air  of  triumph,  "  is  this — I  know,  for  Lion  explained 
it  to  me.  In  one  kind  of  poetry  the  writer  throws  himself 
entirely  out  of  his  existence  ;  he  puts  himself  into  other  ex- 
istences quite  strange  to  his  own.  He  may  be  a  very  good 
man,  and  he  writes  his  best  poetry  about  very  wicked  men  ; 
lie  would  not  hurt  a  fly,  but  he  delights  in  describing  mur- 
derers. But  in  the  other  kind  of  poetry  the  writer  does  not 
put  himself  into  other  existences  ;  he  expresses  his  own  joys 
and  sorrows,  his  own  individual  heart  and  mind.  If  he  could 
not  hurt  a  fly,  he  certainly  could  not  make  himself  at  home 
in  the  cruel  heart  of  a  murderer.  There,  Mr.  Chillingly, 
that  is  the  difference  between  one  kind  of  poetry  and 
another." 

"  Very  true,"  said  Kenelm,  amused  by  the  girl's  critical 
definitions.  "The  difference  between  dramatic  poetry  f^nd 
lyrical.  But  may  I  ask  what  that  definition  has  to  do  with 
the  subject  into  which  you  so  suddenly  introduced  it?" 

"  Much  ;  for  when  Lion  was  explaining  this  to  my  aunt,- 
he  said,  *  A  perfect  woman  is  a  poem  ;  but  slie  can  never  be 
a  poem  of  the  one  kind,  never  can  make  herself  at  home  in 


37S  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

the  hearts  with  which  she  has  no  connection,  never  feel  any 
sympathy  with  crime  and  evil;  she  must  be  a  poem  of  the 
other  kind,  weaving  out  poetry  from  her  own  thougiits  and 
fancies.'  And  turning  to  me,  iie  said,  smiling,  'That  is  the 
poem  I  wish  Lily  to  be.  Too  many  dry  books  would  only 
spoil  the  poem.'  And  yon  now  see  why  I  am  so  ignorant 
and  so  unlike  other  girls,  and  why  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Emlyn 
look  down  upon  nie." 

"You  wrong  at  least  Mr.  Emlyn,  for  it  was  he  who  first 
said  to  me,  '  Lily  Mordaunt  is  a  poem.'  " 

"  Did  he  ?  I  shall  love  him  for  that.  How  pleased  Lion 
will  be  ! " 

"  Mr.  Melville  seems  to  have  an  extraordinarv  influence 
over  your  mind,"  said  Kenelm,  with  a  jealous  pang. 

"  Of  course.  I  have  neither  father  nor  mother  ;  Lion  has 
been  both  to  me.  Aunty  has  often  said,  'You  cannot  be  too 
grateful  to  your  guardian  ;  without  him  I  should  have  no 
home  to  shelter  you,  no  bread  to  give  you.'  He  never  said 
that — he  would  be  very  angry  with  aunty  if  he  knew  she  had 
said  it.  When  he  does  not  call  me  Fairy  he  calls  me  Prin- 
cess.    I  would  not  displease  him  for  the  world." 

"He  is  very  much  older  than  you,  old  enough  to  be  your 
father,  I  hear." 

"  I  daresay.  But  if  he  were  twice  as  old  I  could  not  love 
him  better." 

Kenelm  smiled — the  jealousy  was  gone.  Certainly  not 
thus  could  any  girl,  even  Lily,  speak  of  one  with  whom,  how- 
ever she  might  love  him,  she  was  likely  to  fall  in  love. 

Lily  now  rose  up,  rather  slowly  and  wearily.  "  It  is  time 
to  go  home  :  aunty  will  be  wondering  what  keeps  me  away. 
Come." 

They  took  their  way  towards  the  bridge  opposite  to 
Cromwell  Lodge. 

It  was  not  for  some  minutes  that  either  broke  silence. 
Lily  was  the  first  to  do  so,  and  with  one  of  those  abrupt 
changes  of  tcjpic  which  were  conmion  to  the  restless  play  of 
her  secret  thoughts. 

"You  have  father  and  mother  still  living,  Mr.  Chil- 
lingly ? " 

"Thank  Heaven,  yes." 

"  Which  do  you  love  the  best  ?" 

"  That  is  scarcely  a  fair  question.  I  love  my  mother  very 
much  ;  l)ut  my  father  and  I  understand  each  other  better 
than " 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  379 

"I  see— it  is  so  difficult  to  be  understood.  No  one 
understands  me." 

"I  think  I  do." 

Lily  shook  her  head,  with  an  energetic  movement  of  dis- 
sent. 

"At   least  as  well  as  a  man  can  understand  a  young 

lady." 

"What  sort  of  young  lady  is  Miss   Cecilia  Travers  ?  " 

"  Cecilia  Travers  ?  When  and  how  did  you  ever  hear 
that  such  a  person  existed  ?  " 

"  That  big  London  man  whom  they  called  Sir  Thomas 
mentioned  her  name  the  day  we  dined  at  Braefieldville." 

"  I  remember— as  having  been  at  the  Court  ball." 

"  He  said  she  was  very  handsome." 

"  So  she  is." 

"  Is  she  a  poem,  too  ? " 

"  No  ;  that  never  struck  me." 

"  Mr.  Emlyn,  I  suppose,  would  call  her  perfectly  brought 
tip — well  educated.  He  would  not  raise  his  eyebrows  at  her 
as  he  does  at  me,  poor  me,  Cinderella  !  " 

"  Ah,  Miss  Mordaunt,  you  need  not  envy  her.  Again  let 
me  say  that  you  could  very  soon  educate  yourself  to  the 
level  of  any  young  ladies  who  adorn  the  Court  balls." 

"  Ay  ;  but  then  I  should  not  be  a  poem,"  said  Lily,  with 
a  shy  arch  side-glance  at  his  face. 

They  were  now  on  the  bridge,  and,  before  Kenelm  could 
answer  Lily  resumed  quickly,  *'  You  need  not  come  any 
farther  :  it  is  out  of  your  way." 

"  I  cannot  be  so  disdainfully  dismissed.  Miss  Mordaunt  ;  I 
insist  on  seeing  you  to,  at  least,  your  garden  gate." 

Lily  made  no  objection,  and  again  spoke  : 

"What  sort  of  country  do  you  live  in  when  at  home  ?  is 
it  like  this?" 

"  Not  so  pretty  ;  the  features  are  larger,  more  hill  and 
dale  and  woodland  ;  yet  there  is  one  feature  in  our  grounds 
which  reminds  me  a  little  of  this  landscape  :  a  light  stream, 
somewhat  wider,  indeed,  than  your  brooklet  ;  but  here  and 
there  the  banks  are  so  like  those  by  Cromwell  Lodge  that  I 
sometimes  start  and  fancy  myself  at  home.  I  have  a  strange 
love  for  rivulets  and  all  running  waters,  and  in  my  foot- 
wanderings  I  find  myself  magnetically  attracted  tow^ards 
them." 

Lily  listened  with  interest,  and  after  a  short  pause  said, 
with  a'half-suppressed  sigh,  "  Your  home  is  much  finer  than 


38o  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

any  place  here,  even  than  Braefieldville,  is  it  not  ?  Mrs. 
Braefield  says  your  father  is  very  rich." 

"  I  doubt  if  he  is  richer  than  Mr.  Braefield,  and  though 
his  house  may  be  larger  than  Braefieldville,  it  is  not  so 
smartly  furnished,  and  has  no  such  luxurious  hot-houses 
and  conservatories.  My  father's  tastes  are  like  mine,  very 
simple.  Give  him  his  library,  and  he  would  scarcely  miss 
his  fortune  if  he  lost  it.  He  has  in  this  one  immense  ad- 
vantage over  me." 

"You  would  miss  fortune  ?"  said  Lily,  quickly. 

"Not  that  ;  but  my  father  is  never  tired  of  books.  And 
shall  I  own  it  ?  there  are  days  when  books  tire  me  almost  as 
much  as  they  do  you." 

They  were  now  at  the  garden  gate.  Lily  Avith  one  hand 
on  the  latch  held  out  the  other  to  Kenclm,  and  her  smile  lit 
up  the  dull  sky  like  a  burst  of  sunshine,  as  she  looked  in  his 
face  and  vanished. 


BOOK  VII. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Kenelm  did  not  return  home  till  dusk,  and  just  as  he 
was  sitting  down  to  his  solitary  meal  there  was  a  ring  at  the 
bell,  and  Mrs.  Jones  ushered  in  Mr.  Thomas  Bowles. 

Though  that  gentleman  had  never  written  to  announce 
the  day  of  his  arrival,  he  was  not  the  less  welcome. 

"Only,"  said  Kenelm,  "  if  you  preserve  the  appetite  I 
have  lost,  I  fear  you  will  find  meagre  fare  to-day.  Sit  down, 
man." 

"  Thank  you  kindly,  but  I  dined  two  hours  ago  in  Lon' 
don,  and  I  really  can  eat  nothing  more." 

Kenelm  was  too  well-bred  to  press  unwelcome  hospitali- 
ties. In  a  very  few  minutes  his  frugal  repast  was  ended,  the 
cloth  removed,  the  two  men  were  left  alone. 

"Your  room  is  here,  of  course,  Tom  ;  that  was  engaged 
from  the  day  I  asked  you  ;  but  you  ought  to  have  given  me 
a  line  to  say  when  to  expect  you,  so  that  I  could  have  put 
our  hostess  on  her  mettle  as  to  dinner  or  supper.  You 
smoke  still,  of  course  ;  light  your  pipe." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Chillingly,  I  seldom  smoke  now;  but 
if  you  will  excuse  a  cigar,"  and  Tom  produced  a  very  smart 
cigar-case. 

"  Do  as  you  would  at  home.  I  shall  send  word  to  Will 
Somers  that  you  and  I  sup  there  to-morrow.  You  forgive 
me  for  letting  out  your  secret.  All  straightforward  now 
and  henceforth.  You  come  to  their  hearth  as  a  friend,  who 
will  grow  dearer  to  them  both  every  year.  Ah,  Tom,  this 
for  woman  seems  to  me  a  very  wonderful  thing.  It  may 
sink  a  man  into  such  deeps  of  evil,  and  lift  a  man  into  such 
heights  of  good." 

"  I  don't  know  as  to  the  good,"  said  Tom,  mournfully, 
and  laying  aside  his  cigar. 

"  Go  on  smoking  ;  I  should  like  to  keep  you  company  : 
can  you  spare  me  one  of  your  cigars  ? " 


3S2  KENELM   CIIILLIiXar.Y. 

Tom  offered  his  case.  Kenelm  extracted  a  cigar,  lighted 
it,  drew  a  few  whiffs,  and,  when  he  saw  that  Tom  had  re- 
sumed his  own  cigar,  recommenced  conversation. 

"You  don't  know  as  to  the  good  ;  but  tell  me  honestly, 
do  you  think  if  you  had  not  loved  Jessie  Wiles  you  would 
be  as  good  a  man  as  you  arc  now?" 

"  If  I  am  better  than  1  was,  it  is  not  because  of  my  love 
for  the  girl." 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  The  loss  of  her," 

Kenelm  started,  turned  very  pale,  threw  aside  the  cigar, 
rose  and  walked  the  room  to  and  fro  with  very  quick  but 
very  irregular  strides. 

Tom  continued  quietly.  "Suppose  I  had  won  Jessie  and 
married  her,  I  don't  think  any  idea  of  improving  myself  would 
have  entered  my  head.  My  uncle  would  have  been  very 
much  offended  at  my  marrying  a  day-laborer's  dau,:!;hter, 
and  would  not  have  invited  me  to  Luscombe.  I  should  have 
remained  at  Graveleigh,  with  no  ambition  of  being  more 
than  a  common  farrier,  an  ignorant,  noisy,  quarrelsome 
man  ;  and  if  I  could  not  have  made  Jessicas  fond  of  me 
as  I  wished,  I  should  not  have  broken  myself  of  drinking; 
and  I  shudder  to  think  what  a  brute  I  might  have  been, 
when  I  see  in  the  newspapers  an  account  of  some  drunken 
wife-beater.  How  do  we  know  but  what  that  wife-beater 
loved  his  wife  dearly  before  marriage,  and  she  did  not  care 
for  him  ?  His  home  was  unhappy,  and  so  he  took  to  drink 
and  wife-beating." 

"  I  was  right,  then,"  said  Kenelm,  halting  his  strides, 
"when  I  told  you  it  would  be  a  miserable  fate  to  be  married 
to  a  girl  whom  you  loved  to  distraction,  and  whose  heart 
you  could  never  warm  to  you,  whose  life  you  could  never 
render  happy." 

"  So  right ! " 

"  Let  us  drop  that  part  of  the  subject  at  present,"  said 
Kenelm,  reseating  himself,  "and  talk  about  your  Avish  to 
travel.  Though  contented  that  you  did  not  marry  Jessie, 
though  you  can  now  without  anguish  greet  her  as  the  \\'\W 
of  another,  still  there  are  some  lingering  thoughts  of  hei 
that  make  you  restless  ;  and  you  feel  that  you  could  mor«s 
easily  wrench  yourself  from  these  thoughts  in  a  markea 
change  of  scene  and  adventure,  that  you  might  bury  theni 
altogether  in  the  soil  of  a  strange  land.      Is  it  so  ?  " 

"Ay,  something  of  that,  sir." 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  3S3 

Then  Kenclm  roused  himself  to  talk  of  foreign  lands, 
and  to  map  out  a  plan  of  travel  that  might  occupy  some 
months.  He  was  pleased  to  find  that  Tom  had  already 
learned  enouQ;h  of  French  to  make  himself  understood  at 
least  upon  commonplace  matters,  and  still  more  pleased  to 
discover  that  he  had  been  not  only  reading  the  proper 
guide-books  or  manuals  descriptive  of  the  principal  places 
in  Europe  worth  visiting,  but  that  he  had  acquired  an  in- 
terest in  the  places  ;  interest  in  the  fame  attached  to  them 
by  their  history  in  the  past,  or  by  the  treasures  of  art  they 
contained. 

So  they  talked  far  into  the  night,  and  when  Tom  retired 
to  his  room  Kenelm  let  himself  out  of  the  house  noiselessly, 
and  walked  with  slow  steps  towards  the  old  summer-house 
in  wliich  he  had  sat  with  Lily.  The  wind  had  risen,  scatter- 
ing the  clouds  that  had  veiled  tne  preceding  day,  so  that  the 
stars  were  seen  in  far  chasms  of  the  sky  beyond — seen  for 
awhile  in  one  place,  and,  when  the  swift  clouds  rolled  over 
them  there,  shining  out  elsewhere.  Amid  the  varying 
sounds  of  the  trees,  through  which  swept  the  night  gusts, 
Kenelm  fancied  he  could  distinguish  the  sigh  of  the  willow 
on  the  opposite  lawn  of  Grasmere. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Kenelm  despatched  a  note  to  Will  Somers  early  the  next 
morning,  inviting  himself  and  Mr.  Bowles  to  supper  that 
evening.  His  tact  was  sufficient  to  make  him  aware  that  in 
such  social  meal  there  wovdd  be  far  less  restraint  for  each 
and  all  concerned  than  in  a  more  formal  visit  from  Tom 
during  the  daytime,  and  when  Jessie,  too,  was  engaged  w4th 
customers  to  the  shop. 

But  he  led  Tom  through  the  town  and  showed  him  the 
shop  itself,  with  its  pretty  goods  at  the  plate-glass  windows, 
and  its  general  air  of  prosperous  trade  ;  then  he  carried 
him  off  into  the  lanes  and  fields  of  the  country,  drawing  out 
the  mind  of  his  companion,  and  impressed  with  great  ad- 
miration of  its  marked  improvement  in  culture,  and  in  the 
trains  of  thought  which  culture  opens  out  and  enriches. 

But  throughout  all  their  multiform  range  of  subject, 
Kenelm  could  perceive  that  Tom  was  still  preoccupied  and 


3S4  KENELM   C/JILLIA'GLY. 

abstracted  ;  the  idea  of  the  coming  interview  with  Jessie 
weighed  upon  him. 

Wlien  they  left  Cromwell  Lodge  at  niglitfall,  to  repair 
to  the  supper  at  Will's,  Kenelm  noticed  that  Bowles  had 
availed  himself  of  the  contents  of  his  carpet-bag,  to  make 
some  refined  alterations  in  his  dress.  The  alterations  be- 
came him. 

When  they  entered  the  parlor,  Will  rose  from  his  chair 
with  the  evidence  of  deep  emotion  on  his  face,  advanced  to 
Tom,  took  his  hand  and  grasped  and  dropped  it  without  a 
word.  Jessie  saluted  both  guests  alike,  with  drooping  eye- 
lids and  an  elaborate  curtsy.  The  old  mother  alone  was 
perfectly  self-possessed  and  up  to  the  occasion. 

"  I  am  heartily  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Bowles,"  said  she, 
"  and  so  all  three  of  us  are,  and  ought  to  be ;  and  if  baby 
was  older,  there  would  be  four." 

"And  wliere  on  earth  have  you  hidden  baby  ?"  cried 
Kenelm.  "  Surely  he  might  have  been  kept  up  for  me  to- 
night, when  I  was  expected ;  the  last  time  I  supped  here  I 
took  you  by  surprise,  and  therefore  had  no  right  to  complain 
of  baby's  want  of  respect  to  his  parents'  friends." 

Jessie  raised  the  window-curtain,  and  pointed  to  the  cra- 
dle behind  it.  Kenelm  linked  his  arm  in  Tom's,  led  him  to 
the  cradle,  and,  leaving  him  alone  to  gaze  on  the  sleeping 
inmate,  seated  himself  at  the  table,  between  old  Mrs. 
Somers  and  Will.  Will's  eyes  were  turned  away  towards 
the  curtain,  Jessie  holding  its  folds  aside,  and  the  formid- 
able Tom,  who  had  been  the  terror  of  his  neighborhood, 
bending  smiling  over  the  cradle  ;  till  at  last  he  laid  his 
large  hand  on  the  pillow,  gently,  timidly,  careful  not  to 
awake  the  helpless  sleeper,  and  his  lips  moved,  doubtless 
with  a  blessing  ;  then  he  too  came  to  the  table,  seating  him- 
self, and  Jessie  carried  the  cradle  up-stairs. 

Will  fixed  his  keen  intelligent  eyes  on  his  by-gone  rival; 
.and  noticing  the  changed  expression  of  the  once  aggressive 
countenance,  the  changed  costume  in  which,  without  tinge 
of  rustic  foppery,  there  was  the  token  of  a  certain  gravity  of 
station  scarcelv  compatible  with  a  return  to  old  loves  and 
old  habits  in  the  village  world,  the  last  shadow  of  jealousy 
vanished  from  the  clear  surface  of  Will's  affectionate 
nature. 

"Mr.  Bowles,"  he  exclaimed  impulsively,  "you  have  a 
kind  heart,  and  a  good  heart,  and  a  generous  heart.  And 
your  corning  here  to-night  on  this  friendly  visit  is  an  honor 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  3S5 

which — Avhich  " — "Which,"  interrupted  Kenelm,  compas- 
sionating Will's  embarrassment,  "  is  on  the  side  of  us  single 
men.  In  this  free  country  a  married  man  who  has  a  male 
baby  may  be  father  to  the  Lord  Chancellor  or  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury.  But — well,  my  friends,  such  a 
meeting  as  we  have  to-night  does  not  come  often  ;  and  after 
supper  let  us  celebrate  it  with  a  bowl  of  punch.  If  we  have 
headaches  the  next  morning,  none  of  us  will  grumble." 

Old  Mrs.  Somers  laughed  out  jovially.  "  Bless  you, 
sir,  1  did  not  think  of  the  punch  ;  I  will  go  and  see  about 
it  ; "  and,  baby's  socks  still  in  her  hands,  she  hastened  from 
the  room. 

What  with  the  supper,  what  with  the  punch,  and  what 
with  Kenelm's  art  of  cheery  talk  on  general  subjects,  all  re- 
serve, all  awkwardness,  all  shyness  between  the  convivialists, 
rapidly  disappeared.  Jessie  mingled  in  the  talk  ;  perhaps 
(excepting  only  Kenelm)  she  talked  more  than  the  others, 
artlessly,  gayly,  no  vestige  of  the  old  coquetry,  but  now  and 
then  with  a  touch  of  genteel  finery,  indicative  of  her  rise  in 
life,  and  of  the  contact  of  the  fancy  shopkeeper  with  noble 
customers.  It  was  a  pleasant  evening — Kenelm  had  re- 
solved that  it  should  be  so.  Not  a  hint  of  the  obligations 
to  Mr.  Bowles  escaped  until  Will,  following  his  visitor  to 
the  door,  Avhispered  to  Tom,  "You  don't  want  thanks,  and 
I  can't  express  them.  But  when  we  say  our  prayers  at 
night,  we  have  always  asked  God  to  bless  him  who  brought 
us  together,  and  has  since  made  us  so  prosperous — I  mean 
Mr.  Chillingly.  To-night  there  will  be  another  besides  him 
for  whom  we  shall  pray,  and  for  whom  baby,  when  he  is 
older,,  will  pray  too." 

Therewith  Will's  voice  thickened  ;  and  he  prude'ntly  re- 
ceded, with  no  unreasonable  fear  lest  the  punch  might  make 
him  too  demonstrative  of  emotion  if  he  said  more. 

Tom  was  very  silent  on  the  return  to  Cromwell  Lodge  ; 
it  did  not  seem  the  silence  of  depressed  spirits,  but  rather 
of  quiet  meditation,  from  which  Kenelm  did  not  attempt  to 
rouse  him. 

It  was  not  till  they  reached  the  garden  pales  of  Grasmere 
that  Tom,  stopping  short,  and  turning  his  fr.ce  to  Kenelm, 
said  : 

"  I  am  very  grateful  to  you  for  this  evening — very." 

"  It  has  revived  no  painful  thoughts,  then  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  feel  so  much  calmer  in  mind  than  I  ever  be- 
lieved I  could  have  been,  after  seeing  her  again." 


386  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

"  Is  it  possible  !  "  said  Kenelm,  to  himself.  "  How  should 
I  feel  if  I  ever  saw  in  Lily  the  wife  of  another  man,  the 
mother  of  his  child  ?"  At  that  question  he  shuddered,  and 
an  involuntary  groan  escaped  from  his  lips.  Just  then, 
having,  willingly  in  those  precincts,  arrested  his  steps  when 
Tom  paused  to  address  him,  something  softly  touched  the 
arm  which  he  had  rested  on  the  garden  pale.  He  looked 
and  saw  that  it  was  Blanche.  The  creature,  impelled  by  its 
instincts  towards  night-wanderings,  had,  somehow  or  other, 
escaped  from  its  own  bed  within  the  house,  and,  hearing  a 
voice  that  had  grown  somewhat  familiar  to  its  ear,  crept 
from  among  the  shrubs  behind  upon  the  edge  of  the  pale. 
There  it  stood,  with  arched  back,  purring  low  as  in  pleased 
salutation. 

Kenelm  bent  down  and  covered  with  kisses  the  blue  rib- 
bon which  Lily's  hand  had  bound  round  the  favorite's  neck. 
Blanche  submitted  to  the  caress  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
catching  a  slight  rustle  among  the  shrubs,  made  by  some 
awaking  bird,  sprang  into  the  thick  of  the  quivering  leaves 
and  vanished. 

Kenelm  moved  on  with  a  quick  impatient  stride,  and  no 
further  words  were  exchanged  between  him  and  his  com- 
panion till  they  reached  their  lodging  and  parted  for  the 
night. 


CHAPTER  HI. 


Thk  next  day,  towards  noon,  Kenelm  and  his  visitor, 
walking  together  along  the  brook-side,  stopped  before  Izaak 
Walton's  summer-house,  and,  at  Kenelm's  suggestion,  en- 
tered therein  to  rest,  and  more  at  their  ease  to  continue  the 
conversation  they  had  begun. 

"  You  have  just  told  me,"  said  Kenelm,  "that  you  feel  as 
if  a  load  were  taken  off  your  heart,  now  that  you  have  again 
met  Jessie  Somers,  and  that  you  find  her  so  changed  that 
she  is  no  longer  the  woman  you  loved.  As  to  the  change, 
whatever  it  be,  I  own  it  seems  to  me  for  the  better,  in  person, 
in  manners,  in  character:  of  course  I  should  not  say  this  if 
I  were  not  convinced  of  your  perfect  sincerity  when  you  as- 
sured me  that  you  are  cured  of  the  old  wound.  But  I  feel 
so  deeply  interested  in  the  question  how  a  fervent  love, 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  387 

once  entertained  and  enthroned  in  the  heart  of  a  man  so 
earnestly  affectionate  and  so  warm-blooded  as  yourself,  can 
be,  all  of  a  sudden,  at  a  single  interview,  expelled  or  trans- 
ferred into  the  calm  sentiment  of  friendship,  that  I  pray 
you  to  explain." 

"That  is  what  puzzles  me,  sir,"  answered  Tom,  passing 
his  hand  over  his  forehead.  "  And  I  don't  know  if  I  can 
explain  it." 

"Think  over  it,  and  try." 

Tom  mused  for  some  moments,  and  then  began.  "  You 
see,  sir,  that  I  was  a  very  different  man  myself  when  I  fell 
in  love  with  Jessie  Wiles,  and  said,  '  Come  what  may,  that 
girl  shall  be  my  wife.     Nobody  else  shall  have  her.'  " 

"  Agreed  ;  go  on." 

"  But  while  I  was  becoming  a  different  man,  when  I 
thought  of  her, — and  I  was  always  thinking  of  her, — I  still 
pictured  her  to  myself  as  the  same  Jessie  Wiles  ;  and  though, 
when  I  did  see  her  again  at  Graveleigh,  after  she  had  mar- 
ried— the  day " 

"  You  saved  her  from  the  insolence  of  the  squire." 

*' — She  was  but  very  recently  married.  I  did  not  realize 
her  as  married.  I  did  not  see  her  husband,  and  the  differ- 
ence wuthm  myself  was  only  then  beginning.  Well,  so  all 
the  time  I  was  reading  and  thinking,  and  striving  to  improve 
my  old  self  at  Luscombe,  still  Jessie  Wiles  haunted  me  as 
the  only  girl  I  had  ever  loved,  ever  could  love  ;  I  could  not 
believe  it  possible  that  I  could  ever  marry  any  one  else. 
And  lately  I  have  been  much  pressed  to  marry  some  one 
else  ;  all  my  family  wish  it  ;  but  the  face  of  Jessie  rose  up 
before  me,  and  I  said  to  myself,  '  I  should  be  a  base  man  if 
I  married  one  woman,  while  I  could  not  get  another  Avoman 
out  of  my  head.'  I  must  see  Jessie  once  more,  must  learn 
whether  her  face  is  now  really  the  face  that  haunts  me  when 
I  sit  alone  ;  and  I  have  seen  her,  and  it  is  not  that  face  ;  it 
may  be  handsomer,  but  it  is  not  a  girl's  face,  it  is  the  face 
of  a  wife  and  a  mother.  And,  last  evening,  while  she  \vas 
talking  with  an  open-heartedness  which  I  had  never  found 
in  her  before,  I  became  strangely  conscious  of  the  difference 
in  myself  that  had  been  silently  at  work  within  the  last  two 
years  or  so.  Then,  sir,  when  I  was  but  an  ill-conditioned, 
uneducated,  petty  village  farrier,  there  was  no  inequality 
between  me  and  a  peasant  girl ;  or  rather,  in  all  things  ex- 
cept fortune,  the  peasant  girl  was  much  above  me.  But 
last  evening  I  asked  myself,  on  watching  her  and  listening 


388  KENELM   CHILIJNGLY. 

to  her  talk,  '  If  Jessie  were  now  free,  should  I  press  her  to 
be  my  wife  ? '  and  I  answered  myself,  '  No.'  " 

Kenelm  listened  with  rapt  attention,  and  exclaimed 
briefly,  but  passionately,  "Why?" 

"It  seems  as  if  I  were  giving  myself  airs  to  say  why. 
But,  sir,  lately  I  have  been  thrown  among  persons,  women 
as  well  as  men,  of  a  higher  class  than  I  was  born  in  ;  and  in 
a  wife  I  should  want  a  companion  up  to  their  mark,  and 
who  would  keep  me  up  to  mine  ;  and  ah,  sir,  I  don't  feel  as 
if  I  could  find  that  companion  in  Mrs.  Somers." 

"  I  understand  you  now,  Tom.  But  you  are  spoiling  a 
silly  romance  of  mine.  I  had  fancied  the  little  girl  with  the 
flower  face  would  grow  up  to  supply  the  loss  of  Jessie  ;  and, 
I  am  so  ignorant  of  the  human  heart,  I  did  think  it  would 
take  all  the  years  required  for  the  little  girl  to  open  into  a 
woman,  before  the  loss  of  the  old  love  could  be  supplied.  I 
see  now  that  the  poor  little  child  with  the  flower  face  has  no 
chance." 

"Chance?  Why,  Mr.  Chillingly,"  cried  Tqm,  evidently 
much  nettled,  "  Susy  is  a  dear  little  thing,  but  she  is  scarcely 
more  than  a  mere  charity  girl.  Sir,  when  I  last  saw  you  in 
London  you  touched  on  tliat  matter  as  if  I  were  still  the 
village  farrier's  son  who  might  marry  a  village  laborer's 
daughter.  But,"  added  Tom,  softening  down  his  irritated 
tone  of  voice,  "even  if  Susv  were  a  lady  born,  I  think  a  man 
would  make  a  very  great  mistake  if  he  thouglit  he  could 
bring  up  a  little  girl  to  regard  him  as  a  father,  and  then, 
when  she  grew  up,  expect  her  to  accept  him  as  a  lover." 

"Ah,  you  think  that  !  "  exclaimed  Kenelm,  eagerly,  and 
turning  eyes  that  sparkled  with  joy  towards  the  lawn  of 
Grasmere,  "You  think  that  ;  it  is  very  sensibly  said — well 
—and  you  have  been  pressed  to  marry,  and  have  hung  back 
till  you  had  seen  again  Mrs.  Somers.  Now  you  will  be  bet- 
ter disposed  to  such  a  step  ;  tell  me  about  it." 

"  I  said,  last  evening,  that  one  of  the  principal  capitalists 
at  Luscombe,  the  leading  corn-merchant,  had  offered  to  take 
me  into  partnership.  And,  sir,  he  has  an  only  daughter  ; 
she  is  a  very  amiable  girl,  has  had  a  first-rate  education,  and 
has  such  pleasant  manners  and  way  of  talk,  quite  a  lady.  If 
I  married  her  I  should  soon  be  the  first  man  at  Luscombe, 
and  Luscombe,  as  you  are  no  doubt  aware,  returns  two  mem- 
bers to  Parliament  ;  who  knows  but  that  some  day  the  far- 
rier's son  might  be "     Tom  stopped  abruptly— abashed 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  389 

at  the  aspiring  thought  which,  while  speaking,  had  deepened 
his  hardy  color  and  Hashed  from  his  honest  eyes. 

"Ah!"  said  Kenelm,  almost  mournfully.  "Is  it  so? 
must  each  man  in  his  life  play  many  parts  ?  Ambition  suc- 
ceeds to  love,  the  reasoning  brain  to  the  passionate  heart. 
True,  you  are  changed  ;  my  Tom  Bowles  is  gone." 

"  Not  gone  in  his  undying  gratitude  to  you,  sir,"  said 
Tom,  with  great  emotion.  "Your  Tom  Bowles  would  give 
up  all  his  dreams  of  wealth  or  of  rising  in  life,  and  go 
through  fire  and  water,  to  serve  the  friend  who  first  bid  him 
be  a  new  Tom  Bowles  !  Don't  despise  me  as  your  own 
work  :  you  said  to  me,  that  terrible  day  when  madness  was 
on  my  brow  and  crime  within  my  heart,  '  I  will  be  to  you 
the  truest  friend  man  ever  found  in  man.'  So  you  have  been. 
You  commanded  me  to  read,  you  commanded  me  to  think, 
you  taught  me  that  body  should  be  the  servant  of  mind." 

"  Hush,  hush  !  times  are  altered  ;  it  is  you  who  can 
teach  me  now.  Teach  me,  teach  me  ;  how  does  ambition 
replace  love  ?  How  does  the  desire  to  rise  in  life  become  the 
all-mastering  passion,  and,  should  it  prosper,  the  all-atoning 
consolation  of  our  life  ?  We  can  never  be  as  happy,  though 
we  rose  to  the  throne  of  the  Caesars,  as  we  dream  that  we 
could  have  been  had  Heaven  but  permitted  us  to  dwell  in 
the  obscurest  village,  side  by  side  with  the  woman  we  love." 

Tom  was  exceedingly  startled  by  such  a  burst  of  irrepres- 
sible passion  from  the  man  who  had  told  him  that,  though 
friends  were  found  only  once  in  a  life,  sweethearts  were  as 
plentiful  as  blackberries. 

Again  he  swept  his  hand  over  his  forehead,  and  replied 
hesitatingly.  "  I  can't  pretend  to  say  what  may  be  the  case 
with  others.  But  to  judge  by  my  own  case  it  seems  to  be 
this  :  a  young  man  who,  out  of  his  own  business,  has  noth- 
ing to  interest  or  excite  him,  finds  content,  interest,  and  ex- 
citement when  he  falls  in  love  ;  and  then,  whether  for  good 
or  ill,  he  thinks  there  is  nothing  like  love  in  the  world  ;  he 
don't  care  a  fig  for  ambition  then.  Over  and  over  again  did 
my  poor  uncle  ask  me  to  come  to  him  at  Luscombe,  and  re- 
present all  the  worldly  advantage  it  would  be  to  me  ;  but  I 
could  not  leave  the  village  in  which  Jessie  lived,  and,  besides, 
I  felt  myself  unfit  to  be  anything  higher  than  I  was.  But 
when  I  had  been  some  time  at  Luscombe,  and  gradually  got 
accustomed  to  another  sort  of  people  and  another  sort  of 
talk,  then  I  began  to  feel  interest  in  the  same  objects  that 
interested    those  about   me  ;  and   when,  partly  by   mixing 


390  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

with  better-educated  men,  and  partly  by  the  pains  I  took  to 
educate  myself,  I  felt  that  I  might  now  more  easily  rise  above 
my  uncle's  rank  of  life  than  two  years  ago  I  could  have  risen 
above  a  farrier's  forge,  then  the  ambition  to  rise  did  stir  in 
me  and  grew  stronger  every  day.  Sir,  I  don't  think  you 
can  wake  up  a  man's  intellect  but  what  you  wake  with  it 
emulation.     And,  after  all,  emulation  is  ambition." 

"Then  I  suppose  I  have  no  emulation  in  me,  for  cer- 
tainly I  have  no  ambition." 

"  That  I  can't  believe,  sir.  Other  thoughts  may  cover  it 
over  and  keep  it  down  for  a  time  ;  but,  sooner  or  later,  it 
will  force  its  way  to  the  top,  as  it  has  done  with  me.  To 
get  on  in  life,  to  be  respected  by  those  who  know  you,  more 
and  more  as  you  grow  older,  I  call  that  a  manly  desire.  I 
am  sure  it  comes  as  naturally  to  an  Englishman  as — as " 

"As  the  wish  to  knock  down  some  other  Englishman 
who  stands  in  his  way  does.  I  perceive  nov/  that  you  were 
always  a  very  ambitious  man,  Tom  ;  the  ambition  has  only 
taken  another  direction.     Caesar  mig-ht  have  been 


^£5' 


'But  the  first  wrestler  on  the  green.' 

And  now,  I  suppose,  you  abandon  the  idea  of  travel  ;  you 
will  return  to  Luscombe,  cured  of  all  regret  for  the  loss 
of  Jessie  ;  you  will  marry  the  young  lady  you  mention,  and 
rise  through  progressive  steps  of  alderman  and  mayor  into 
the  rank  of  member  for  Luscombe." 

"All  that  may  come  in  good  time,"  answered  Tom,  not 
resenting  the  tone  of  irony  in  which  he  was  addressed,  "but 
I  still  intend  to  travel  ;  a  year  so  spent  must  render  me  all 
the  more  fit  for  any  station  I  aim  at.  I  shall  go  back  to 
Luscombe  to  arrange  my  affairs,  come  to  terms  with  Mr. 
Leland,  the  corn-merchant,  against  my  return,  and " 

"  The  young  lady  is  to  wait  till  then." 

"Emily." 

"Oh,  that  is  the  name?  Emily!  a  much  more  elegant 
name  than  Jessie." 

"  Emily,"  continued  Tom,  with  an  unruffled  placidity 
which,  considering  the  aggravating  bitterness  for  which 
Kenelm  had  exchanged  his  wonted  dulcitudes  of  indiffer- 
entism,  was  absolutely  saintlike,  "  Emily  knows  that  if  she 
were  my  wife  I  should  be  proud  of  her,  and  will  esteem  me 
the  more  if  she  feels  how  resolved  I  am  that  she  shall  never 
be  ashamed  of  me." 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 


391 


"  Pardon  me,  Tom,"  said  Kenelm,  softened,  and  laying 
his  hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder  with  brother-like  tender- 
ness. "  Nature  has  made  you  a  thorougli  gentleman  ;  and 
you  could  not  think  and  speak  more  nobly  if  you  had  come 
into  tlie  world  as  the  head  of  all  the  Howards." 


CHAPTER   IV. 


Tom  went  away  the  next  morning.  He  declined  to  see 
Jessie  again,  saying,  curtly,  "  I  don't  wish  the  impression 
made  on  me  the  other  evening  to  incur  a  chance  of  being 
w^eakened." 

Kenelm  was  in  no  mood  to  regret  his  friend's  departure. 
Despite  all  the  improvement  in  Tom's  manners  and  culture, 
which  raised  him  so  much  nearer  to  equality  with  the  polite 
and  instructed  heir  of  the  Cliillinglys,  Kenelm  w^ould  have 
felt  more  in  sympathy  and  rapport  with  the  old  disconsolate 
fellow-wanderer  who  had  reclined  with  him  on  the  grass, 
listening  to  the  Minstrel's  talk  or  verse,  than  he  did  with 
the  practical,  rising  citizen  of  Luscombe.  To  the  young 
lover  of  Lily  Mordaunt  there  was  a  discord,  a  jar,  in  the 
knowledge  that  the  human  heart  admits  of  such  w"ell-rea- 
soned,  well-justified  transfers  of  allegiance  ;  a  Jessie  to-day, 
or  an  Emily  to-morrow — '■''La  reine  est  morte ;  vive  la  reine !  " 

An  hour  or  two  after  Tom  had  gone,  Kenelm  found  him- 
self almost  mechanically  led  towards  Braefieldville.  He 
had  instinctively  divined  Elsie's  secret  wish  with  regard  to 
himself  and  Lily,  however  skilfully  she  thought  she  had 
concealed  it. 

At  Braefieldville  he  should  hear  talk  of  Lily,  and  in  the 
scenes  where  Lily  had  been  first  beheld. 

He  found  Mrs.  Braefield  alone  in  the  drawing-room, 
seated  by  a  table  covered  with  flowers,  which  she  was  as- 
sorting and  intermixing  for  the  vases  to  which  they  were 
destined. 

It  struck  him  that  her  manner  was  more  reserved  than 
usual,  and  somewhat  embarrassed  ;  and  when,  after  a  few 
preliminary  matters  of  small  talk,  he  rushed  boldly  ///  7nedias 
res,  and  asked  if  she  had  seen  Mrs.  Cameron  lately,  she  re- 
plied, briefly,  "Yes,  I  called  there  the  other  day,"  and  im- 


392  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

mediately  changed  the  conversation  to  the  troubled  state  of 
the  Continent. 

Kenelm  was  resolved  not  to  be  so  put  off,  and  presently 
returned  to  the  charge. 

"  Tlie  other  day  you  proposed  an  excursion  to  the  site 
of  the  Roman  villa,  and  said  you  would  ask  Mrs.  Cameron 
to  be  of  the  party.     Perhaps  you  have  forgotten  it  ?" 

"  No  ;  but  Mrs.  Cameron  declines.  We  can  ask  the  Em- 
lyns  instead.     He  will  be  an  excellent  cicerone." 

"  Excellent !     Why  did  Mrs.  Cameron  decline  ?  " 

Elsie  hesitated,  and  then  lifted  her  clear  brown  eyes  to 
his  face,  with  a  sudden  determination  to  bring  matters  to  a 
crisis. 

"  I  cannot  say  why  Mrs.  Cameron  declined,  but  in  de- 
clining she  acted  very  wisely  and  very  honorably.  Listen 
to  me,  Mr.  Cliillingly.  You  know  how  highly  I  esteem  and 
how  cordially  I  like  you,  and  judging  by  what  I  felt  for 
some  w^eeks,  perhaps  longer,  after  we  parted  at  Tor  Had- 

ham "     Here  again  she  hesitated,  and,  with  a  half  laugh 

and  a  slight  blush,  again  went  resolutely  on.  "If  I  were 
Lily's  aunt  or  elder  sister,  I  should  do  as  Mrs.  Cameron 
does  ;  decline  to  let  Lily  see  much  more  of  a  young  gentle- 
man tcjo  much  above  her  in  wealth  and  station  for- " 

"Stop,"  cried  Kenelm,  haughtily.  "I  cannot  allow  that 
any  man's  wealth  or  station  would  warrant  his  presumption 
in  thinking  himself  above  Miss  Mordaunt." 

"Above  her  in  natural  grace  and  refinement,  certainly 
not.  But  in  the  world  there  are  other  considerations,  which 
perhaps  Sir  Peter  and  Lady  Chillingly  might  take  into  ac- 
count." 

"  You  did  not  think  of  that  before  you  last  saw  Mrs. 
Cameron." 

"  Honestly  speaking,  I  did  not.  Assured  that  Miss  Mor- 
daunt was  a  gentlewoman  by  birth,  I  did  not  sufficiently  re- 
flect upon  other  disparities." 

"  You  know,  then,  that  she  is  by  birth  a  gentlewoman  ?  " 

"  I  only  know  it  as  all  here  do,  by  the  assurance  of  Mrs. 
Cameron,  whom  no  one  could  suppose  not  to  be  a  lady. 
But  there  are  different  degrees  of  lady  and  of  gentleman, 
which  are  little  heeded  in  the  ordinary  intercourse  of  society, 
but  become  very  perceptible  in  questions  of  matrimonial 
alliance  ;  and  Mrs.  Cameron  herself  says  very  plainly  that 
she  does  not  consider  her  niece  to  belong  to  that  station  in 
life  from  which  Sir  Peter  and  Lady  Chillingly  would  natur- 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  393 

ally  wish  their  son  should  select  his  bride.  Then  "  (holding 
out  her  hand)  "  pardon  me  if  I  have  wounded  or  offended 
you.  I  speak  as  a  true  friend  to  you  and  to  Lily  both. 
Earnestly  I  advise  you,  if  Miss  Mordaunt  be  the  cause  of 
your  lingering  here,  earnestly  I  advise  you  to  leave  while 
yet  in  time  for  her  peace  of  mind  and  your  own." 

"  Her  peace  of  mind,"  said  Kenelm,  in  low  faltering 
tones,  scarcely  hearing  the  rest  of  Mrs.  Braefield's  speech. 
"  Her  peace  of  mind.  Do  you  sincerely  think  that  she 
cares  for  me — could  care  for  me — if  I  stayed?" 

"  I  wish  I  could  answer  you  decidedly.  I  am  not  in  the 
secrets  of  her  heart.  I  can  but  conjecture  that  it  might  be 
dangerous  for  the  peace  of  any  young  girl  to  see  too  much 
of  a  man  like  yourself,  to  divine  that  he  loved  her,  and  not 
to  be  aware  that  lie  could  not,  with  the  approval  of  his 
family,  ask  her  to  become  his  wife." 

Kenelm  bent  his  face  down,  and  covered  it  with  his  right 
hand.  He  did  not  speak  for  some  moments.  Then  he  rose, 
the  fresh  cheek  very  pale,  and  said  : 

"You  are  right.  Miss  Mordaunt's  peace  of  mind  must 
be  the  first  consideration.  Excuse  me  if  I  quit  you  thus  ab- 
ruptly. You  have  given  me  much  to  think  of,  and  I  can 
only  think  of  it  adequately  when  alone." 


CHAPTER  V. 

FROM   KENELM   CHILLINGLY   TO   SIR   PETER   CHILLINGLY. 

"My  Father,  my  dear  Father, — This  is  no  leply  to  your  letters.  I 
know  not  if  ii  self  can  he  called  a  letter.  I  cannot  yet  decide  whether  it  be 
meant  to  reach  your  hands.  Tired  with  talking  to  myself,  I  sit  down  to  talk 
to  you.  Often  have  I  reproached  myself  for  not  seizing  every  fitting  occasion 
to  let  you  distinctly  know  how  warmly  I  love,  how  deeply  I  reverence 
you;  you,  O  friend,  O  father.  But  we  Chillinglys  are  not  a  demonstrative 
race.  I  don't  remember  that  you,  by  words,  ever  expressed  to  me  the  truth 
that  you  love  your  scjn  infinitely  more  than  he  deserves.  Yet,  do  I  not  know 
that  you  would  send  all  your  beloved  old  l)ooks  to  the  hammer,  rather  than  I 
should  pine  in  vain  for  some  untried,  if  sinless,  delight  on  which  I  had  set  my 
heart  ?  And  do  you  not  know,  equally  well,  that  I  would  part  with  all  my 
heritage,  and  turn  day-laborer,  rather  than  you  should  miss  the  beloved  old 
books  ? 

"  That  mutual  knowledge  is  taken  for  granted  in  all  that  my  heart  yearns 
to  pour  forth  to  your  own.  But,  if  I  divine  aright,  a  day  is  coming  when,  as 
between  you  and  me,  there  must  be  a  sacrifice  on  the  part  of  one  to  the  other. 

17* 


394  KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY. 

If  so,  I  implore  tliat  tlie  sacrifice  may  come  from  you.  How  is  this?  How 
am  1  so  ungenerous,  so  egotistical,  so  selfisli,  so  ungratefully  unmindful  of  all 
I  already  owe  to  you,  ami  may  never  repay  ?  I  can  only  answer,  '  It  is  fate, 
it  is  nature,  it  is  love  ' 

"  Here  I  must  break  off  It  is  midnight,  tlie  moon  halts  opposite  to  the 
window  at  which  I  sit,  and  on  the  stream  that  runs  below  there  is  a  long  nar- 
row track  on  wiiich  every  wave  trembles  in  her  liglit  ;  on  either  side  of  the 
moonlit  track  all  the  other  waves,  running  equally  to  their  grave  in  the  in- 
visible deep,  seem  motionless  and  dark.      I  can  write  nu  more." 

■^^■^^^^^^*^^■»^^^■|^ 

Dated  two  days  later. 

"They  say  she  is  beneath  us  in  wealth  and  station.    Are  we,  my  father — 
we,  two  well-born  gentlemen — covet ers  of  gold  or  lackeys  of  the  great  ?    WJien 
I  was  at  College,  if  there  were  any  there  more  heartily  despised  than  another, 
it  was  the  parasite  and  the  tuft-hunter  ;    the  man  who  chose  his  friends  accord- 
ing as  their  money  or  their  rank  might   be  of  use  to  liim.      If  so  mean  where 
the  clioice  is  so  little  important  to  the  happiness  and  career  of  a  man  v  ho  has 
something  of  manhood  in  him,  how  much  more  mean  to  be  the  parasite  and 
tuft-hunter  in  deciding  what  woman  to  love,  what  woman   to  select  as  the 
sweetener  and  ennol)]er  of  one's  every-day  life  !     Could  she  be  to  my  life  that 
sweetener,  that  ennobler?     I  firmly  I'clicve  it.      Already  life  itself  has  gained 
a  charm  that  I  never  even  guessed  in  it  before  ;  already  I  begin,  though  as  yet 
but  faintly  and  vaguely,  to  recognize  that  interest  in  the  objects  and  aspira- 
tions of  my   fellow-men,  which  is   strongest    in   those  whom   posterity  ranks 
among  its  ennoblers.    In  this  quiet  village  it  is  true  that  I  might  find  examples 
enough  to  prove  that  man  is  not  meant  to  meditate  upon  life,  but  to  take  ac- 
tive part  in  it,  and  in  that  action  to  find  iis  uses.    Lut  I  doubt  if  I  should  have 
profited  by  such  exam]iles,  if  I  should  not  have  looked  on   this  small  stage  of 
the  world  as  I  have  looked  on  the  large  one,  with  the  indifTerent  eyes  of  a 
spectator  on  a  trite  familiar  jilay  carried  on  by  ordinary  actors,  had  not  my 
whole  being  suddenly  leapt  out  of  ])hiluso]-)hy  into  passion,  and.  at  once  made 
warmly  human,  sympathized  with  humanity  wherever  it   buincd  and  glowed. 
Ah,  is  there  to  be  any  doubt  of  what  station,  as  mortal  bride,  is  due  to  her — 
her,  my  princess,  my  Fairy?     If  so,  how  contented  you  shall  be,  my  father, 
with  the  worldly  career  of  your  son  !  how  jierseveringly  he  will  strive  (and 
when  did  i^erseverance  fail?)   to  sup])ly  all  his  deficiencies  of  intellect,  genius, 
knowledge,  by  the  energy  concentrated  on  a  single  objett  which — more  than 
intellect,  genius,  knowledge,  unless  th.ey  a'lain   to  equal  energy  equally  con- 
centrated— conmiands  what  the  world  calls  honors  ! 

"  Yes,  with  her,  with  her  as  the  bearer  of  my  name,  with  her  to  whom  I, 
whatever  I  might  do  of  good  or  of  great,  could  say,  '  It  is  thy  work,'  I  prom- 
ise that  you  sliall  bless  tlie  day  when  you  took  to  your  arms  a. daughter. 

"  'Thou  art  in  contact  with  the  beloved  in  all  that  thou  fcelest  elevated 
above  thee  '  So  it  is  wriiten  by  one  of  those  weird  Germans  who  search  in 
our  bosoms  for  tlie  seeds  of  buried  truths,  and  conjure  them  into  flowers  be- 
fore we  ourselves  were  even  aware  of  the  seeds. 

"  Every  thought  that  associates  itself  with  my  beloved  seems  to  me  born 
with  wings. 

I  have  just  seen  her,  just  parted  from  her.      Since  I  had  been  told  — kindly, 
wisely  told — that  I  had  no  right  to  hazard  her  peace  of  mind  unless  I  were 


I 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY.  395 

privileged  to  woo  and  to  win  her,  I  promised  myself  that  I  would  shun  her 
presence  until  I  had  bared  my  heart  to  you,  as  I  am  doing  now,  and  received 
that  privilege  from  yourself ;  for  even  had  I  never  made  the  promise  that 
binds  my  h(jnor,  your  consent  and  blessing  must  hallow  my  choice.  I  do  not 
feel  as  if  I  could  dare  to  ask  one  so  innocent  and  fair  to  wed  an  ungrateful, 
disobedient  son.  But  this  evening  I  met  her,  unexpectedly,  at  the  vicar's,  an 
excellent  man,  from  whom  I  iiave  learned  much  ;  wliose  precepts,  whose  ex- 
ample, whose  delight  in  his  home,  and  his  life  at  once  active  and  serene,  are  in 
harmony  with  my  own  dreams  when  I  dream  of  her. 

"I  will  tell  you  the  name  of  the  beloved — hold,  it  is  as  yet  a  profound 
secret  between  you  and  me.  But  oil  fur  the  day  when  I  may  hear  you  call 
her  by  that  name,  and  print  on  her  forehead  the  only  kiss  by  man  of  which  I 
should  not  be  jealous  ! 

"  It  is  Sunday,  and  after  the  evening  service  it  is  my  friend's  custom  to 
gather  his  children  round  him,  and,  without  any  formal  sermon  or  discourse, 
engage  their  interests  in  subjects  harmonious  to  associations  with  the  sanctity 
of  the  day  ;  often  not  du'ectly  bearing  upon  religion  ;  more  often,  indeed, 
playfully  starting  from  some  little  incident  or  some  slight  story-book  which 
had  amused  the  children  in  the  course  of  the  past  week,  and  then  gradually 
winding  into  reference  to  some  sweet  moral  precept  or  illustration  from 
some  divine  example.  It  is  a  maxim  with  him  that,  while  much  that  children 
must  learn  they  can  only  learn  well  through  conscious  labor  and  as  positive 
task-work,  yet  Religion  should  be  connected  in  their  minds,  not  with  labor 
and  task-work,  but  should  become  insensibly  infused  into  their  habits  of 
thought,  blending  itself  with  memories  and  images  of  peace  and  love  ;  with 
the  indulgent  tenderness  of  the  earliest  teachers,  the  sinless  mirthfulness  of  the 
earliest  home  ;  with  consolation  in  after-sorrows,  support  through  after-trials, 
and  never  parting  company  with  its  twin  sister,  Hope. 

"I  entered  the  vicar's  room  this  evening  just  as  the  group  had  collected 
round  him.  By  the  side  of  his  wife  sat  a  lady  in  whom  I  feel  a  keen  interest. 
Her  face  wears  that  kind  of  calm  which  speaks  of  the  lassitude  bequeathed  by 
sorrow.  She  is  the  aunt  of  my  beloved  one.  Lily  had  nestled  herself  on  a 
low  ottoman  at  the  good  pastor's  feet,  with  one  of  his  little  girls,  round 
whose  shoulder  she  had  wound  her  arm.  She  is  much  more  fond  of  the  com- 
panionship of  children  than  that  of  girls  of  her  own  age.  The  vicar's  wife,  a 
very  clever  woman,  once,  in  my  hearing,  took  her  to  task  for  this  preference, 
asking  her  why  she  persisted  in  grouping  herself  with  mere  infants  who  could 
teach  her  nothing.  Ah  !  could  you  have  seen  the  innocent,  angel-like  ex- 
pression of  her  face  when  she  answered  simply,  '  I  suppose  because  with  them 
I  feel  safer,  I  mean  nearer  to  God.' 

' '  Mr.  Emlyn — that  is  the  name  of  the  vicar — deduced  his  homily  this  even- 
ing from  a  pretty  fairy-tale  which  Lily  had  been  telling  to  his  children  the 
day  before,  and  which  he  drew  her  on  to  repeat. 

"Take,  in  brief,  the  substance  of  the  story  : — 

"  Once  on  a  time,  a  king  and  queen  made  themselves  very  unhappy  be- 
cause they  had  no  heir  to  their  throne  ;  and  they  prayed  f  jr  one  ;  and  lo,  on 
some  bright  summer  morning,  the  Queen,  waking  from  sleep,  saw  a  cradle 
beside  her  bed,  and  in  the  cradle  a  beautiful  sleeping  babe.  Great  day 
throughout  the  kingdom  !  But  as  the  infant  grew  up,  it  became  very  way- 
ward and  fretful;  it  lost  its  beauty,  it  would  not  learn  its  lessons,  it  was 
as  naughty  as  a  child  could  be.  The  parents  were  very  sorrowful  ;  the  heir, 
so  longed  for,  promised  to  be  a  great  plague  to  themselves  and  their  subjects. 
At  last,  one  day,  to  add  to  their  trouble,  two  little  bumps  appeared  on  the 


396  KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY. 

Prince's  shoulders.  All  the  doctors  were  consulted  as  to  the  cause  and  the 
cure  of  this  deformity.  Of  course  tliey  tried  the  effect  of  back-bauds  and  steel 
macliines,  vvluch  gave  llie  poor  little  Prince  great  pain,  ami  made  him  more 
unamiable  tlian  ever.  The  bumps,  nevertheless,  grew  larger,  and  as  they  in- 
creased, so  the  Prince  sickened  and  pined  away.  At  last  a  skdful  surgeon 
proposed,  as  the  only  chance  of  saving  the  Prince's  life,  that  the  bumps  should 
be  cut  out,  and  tiie  next  inorning  was  fixetl  for  that  operation.  But  at  night 
the  Queen  saw,  or  dreamed  she  saw,  a  beautiful  shape  standing  by  her  bedside. 
And  it  said  to  her  reproachfully,  '  Ungrateful  woman  !  How  wouldst  thou 
repay  me  for  the  precious  boon  that  my  favor  bestowed  on  thee  ?  In  me  be- 
hold the  Queen  of  the  Fairies.  For  the  heir  to  thy  kingdom,  I  consigned  to 
tiiy  cliarge  an  infant  from  Fairyland,  to  become  a  [)lessnig  to  thee  and  to  thy 
people;  and  thou  wouldst  iidlict  upon  it  a  death  of  torture  by  the  surgeon's 
knife.'  And  the  Queen  answered  '  Precious  indeed  thou  mayest  call  tiie  Ijoon  ! 
A  miserable,  sickly,  feverish  changeling.' 

"  '  Art  thou  so  dull,'  said  the  beautiful  visitant,  '  as  not  to  comprehend 
that  the  earliest  instincts  of  the  fairy  child  would  be  those  of  discontent  at  the 
exile  from  its  native  home  ?  and  in  that  discontent  it  would  liave  pined  itself 
to  deatii,  or  grown  up  soured  and  malignant,  a  fairy  still  in  its  power,  but  a 
fairy  of  wrath  and  evil,  had  not  the  strength  of  its  inborn  nature  suffiL-ed  to 
develop  the  growth  of  its  wings.  That  which  thy  blindness  condemns  as 
the  deformity  of  the  human-boin,  is  to  the  fairy-horn  the  crowning  perfection 
of  its  beauty.  Woe  to  thee  if  thou  suffer  not  the  wings  of  the  fairy-child  to 
grow  ! ' 

'•  And  the  next  morning  the  Queen  sent  away  the  surgeon  when  he  came 
with  his  horrible  knife,  and  removed  tlie  back-board  and  the  steel  machines 
from  the  Prince's  slioulders,  though  all  the  doctors  predicted  that  the  child 
would  die.  And  from  that  moment  the  royal  heir  began  to  recover  bloom 
and  health.  And  when  at  last,  out  of  those  deforming  bum[)s,  budded  delicate- 
ly forth  the  [ihrniage  of  snow-white  wings,  the  wayward  peevishness  of  the 
Prince  gave  ])lace  to  sweet  temper.  Instead  of  scratching  his  teachers,  he 
became  the  quickest  and  most  docile  of  pupils,  grew  up  to  be  the  joy  of  his 
parents  and  the  pride  of  their  people  ;  and  tlie  people  said,  '  In  him  we  shall 
have  hereafter  such  a  king  as  we  have  never  yet  known.' 

"  Here  ended  Lily's  tale.  I  cannot  convey  to  you  a  notion  of  the  pretty, 
playful  manner  in  which  it  was  told.  Then  she  said,  with  a  grave  shake  of 
the  head,  '  lint  you  d  )  not  seem  to  know  what  happened  afterwards.  Do  you 
su]ipose  that  tlie  Prince  never  made  use  of  his  wings  ?  Listen  to  me.  It  was 
discovered  by  tlie  courtiers  who  attended  on  his  Royal  lliglmcss  that  on  cer- 
tain nights,  every  week,  he  disapiicared.  In  fact,  on  these  nights,  obedient 
to  the  instinct  of  the  wings,  he  flew  from  palace  hails  into  Fairyland  ;  coming 
back  thence  all  the  more  lovingly  disposed  towards  the  human  home  from 
which  he  had  escaped  for  awhile.' 

"'Oh,  my  children.'  interposed  the  preacher,  earnestly,  '  the  wings  would 
be  given  to  us  in  vain  if  we  did  not  obey  the  instinct  which  alhires  us  to  soar; 
vain  no  less  wou'ld  be  the  soaring,  were  it  not  towards  the  lion  e  whence  we 
came,  bearing  back  from  its  native  airs  a  stronger  health  and  a  serener  joy, 
more  reconciled  to  the  duties  of  earth  by  every  new  flight  into  heaven.' 

"As  hf  thus  completed  the  moral  of  Lily's  fairy-tale,  the  girl  rose  from 
her  low  seat,  took  his  hand,  kissed  it  reverently,  and  walked  away  towards 
the  window.  I  could  see  that  she  was  affected  even  to  tears,  which  she  sought 
to  conceal.  Later  in  the  evening  when  we  were  dispersed  on  the  lawn  for  a 
few  minutes  before  the  parly  broke  up,  Lily  came  to  my  side  timidly,  and  said, 
in  a  low  whisper  : 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  397 

"  '  Are  you  angry  with  me  ?  what  have  I  done  to  displease  you  ? ' 
"  *  Angry  witli  you  ?  displeased  ?     How  can  you  think  of  me  so  unjustly  ?  ' 
"  '  It   is  so  many  days  since  you  have  called,  since  I  have  seen  you,'  she 
said,  so  artlessly,  looking  up  at  me  with  eyes  in  which  tears  still  seemed  to 
tremble. 

"Before  I  could  trust  myself  to  reply,  her  aunt  approached,  and,  noticing 
me  witli  a  cold  and  distant  '  Good-night,'  led  away  her  niece. 

"  I  had  calculated  on  walking  back  to  their  home  with  them,  as  I  gener- 
ally have  done  when  we  met  at  another  house.  But  the  aunt  had  probably 
conjectured  I  might  be  at  the  Vicarage  that  evening,  and,  in  order  to  frustrate 
my  intention,  had  engaged  a  carriage  for  their  return.  No  doubt  she  has  beeir 
warned  against  permitting  further  intimacy  with  her  niece. 

"My  father,  I  must  come  to  you  at  once,  discharge  my  promise,  and  re- 
ceive from  your  own  lips  )  our  consent  to  my  choice  ;  for  you  will  consent, 
will  you  not  ?  But  I  wish  you  to  be  prepared  beforehand,  and  1  shall  there- 
fore put  up  these  disjointed  fragments  of  my  commune  with  my  own  heart  and 
with  yours,  and  post  them  to-morrow.  Expect  me  to  follow  them,  after  leav- 
ing you  a  day  free  to  consider  them  alone— alone,  my  dear  father  ;  they  are 
meant  for  no  eye  but  yours. 

"  K.  C." 


CHAPTER  VI. 


The  next  day  Kenelm  walked  into  the  town,  posted  his  vol- 
uminous letter  to  Sir  Peter,  and  then  looked  in  at  the  shop 
of  Will  Somers,  meaning  to  make  some  purchases  of  basket- 
'  work  or  trifling  fancy  goods  in  Jessie's  pretty  store  of  such 
articles,  that  might  please  the  taste  of  his  mother. 

On  entering  the  shop  his  heart  beat  quicker.  He  saw 
two  young  forms  bending  over  the  counter,  examining  the 
contents  of  a  glass  case.  One  of  these  customers  was  Clem- 
my  ;  in  the  other  there  was  no  mistaking  the  slight  graceful 
shape  of  Lily  Mordaunt.  Clemmy  was  exclaiming,  "  Oh,  it 
is  so  pretty,  Mrs.  Somers  ;  but,"  turning  her  eyes  from 
the  counter  to  a  silk  purse  in  her  hand,  she  added,  sorrow- 
fully, "  I  can't  buy  it.  I  have  not  got  enough,  not  by  a  great 
deal." 

"And  what  is  it.  Miss  Clemmy?"  asked  Kenelm. 

The  two  girls  turned  round  at  his  voice,  and  Clemmy's 
face  brightened. 

"  Look  here,"  she  said,  "is  it  not  too  lovely  ?" 

The  object  thus  admired  and  coveted  was  a  little  gold 
locket,  enriched  by  a  cross  composed  of  small  pearls. 

"  I  assure  you,  miss,"  said  Jessie,  who  had  acquired  all 
the  coaxing  arts  of  her  trade,  "  it   is  really  a  great  bargain. 


398  KENELM    CHILLINGLY. 

Miss  Mary  Burrows,  who  was  liere  just  before  you  came, 
bought  one  not  nearly  so  pretty,  and  gave  ten  shillings  more 
for  it." 

Miss  Mary  Burrows  was  the  same  age  as  Miss  Clementina 
Emlyn,  and  there  was  a  rivalry  as  to  smartnes^  between  those 
youthful  beauties.  "  Miss  Burrows  !  "  sighed  Clemmy,  very 
scornfully. 

But  Kenelm's  attention  was  distracted  from  Clemmy's 
locket  to  a  little  ring  which  Lily  had  been  persuaded  by  Mrs. 
Somers  to  try  on,  and  which  she  now  drew  off  and  returned 
with  a  shake  of  the  head.  Mrs.  Somers,  who  saw  that  she 
had  small  chance  of  selling  the  locket  to  Clemmy,  was  now 
addressing  herself  to  the  elder  girl,  more  likely  to  have  suf- 
ficient pocket-money,  and  whom,  at  all  events,  it  was  quite 
safe  to  trust. 

"The  ring  fits  you  so  nicely,  Miss  Mordaunt,  and  every 
young  lady  of  your  age  wears  at  least  one  ring  ;  allow  .me  to 
put  it  up  ?  "  Slic  added  in  a  lower  voice,  "  Though  we  only 
sell  the  articles  in  this  case  on  conunission,  it  is  all  the  same 
to  us  whether  we  are  paid  now  or  at  Christmas." 

"  'Tis  no  use  tempting  me,  Mrs.  Somers,"  said  Lily,  laugh- 
ing ;  and  then,  with  a  grave  air,  "  I  promised  Lion,  I  mean 
my  guardian,  never  to  run  into  debt  ;  and  I  never  will." 

Lily  turned  resolutelv  from  tlie  perilous  counter,  taking 
up  a  paper  that  contained  a  new  ribbon  she  had  bought  for 
Blanche,  and  Clemmy  reluctantly  followed  her  out  of  the 
shop. 

Kenelm  lingered  behind,  and  selected  very  hastily  a  few 
trifles,  to  be  sent  to  him  that  evening  with  some  specimens 
of  basket-work  left  to  Will's  tasteful  discretion  ;  then  pur- 
chased the  locket  on  which  Clemmy  had  set  her  heart  ;  but 
all  the  while  his  thoughts  were  fixed  on  the  ring  which  Lily 
had  tried  on.  It  was  no  sin  against  etiquette  to  give  the 
locket  to  a  child  like  Clemmy,  but  would  it  not  be  a  cruel 
impertinence  to  offer  a  gift  to  Lily  ? 

Jessie  spoke  : 

"  Miss  Mordaunt  took  a  great  fancy  to  this  ring,  Mr.  Chil- 
lingly. I  am  sure  her  aunt  would  like  her  to  have  it.  I  have 
a  great  mind  to  put  it  by  on  the  chance  of  Mrs.  Cameron's 
calling  here.  It  would  be  a  pity  if  it  were  bought  by  some 
one  else." 

**  I  think,"  said  Kenelm,  "  that  I  will  take  the  liberty  of 
showing  it  to  Mrs.  Cameron.  No  doubt  she  will  buy  it  for 
her  niece.     Add  the  price  of  it  to  my  bill."     He  seized  the 


KENELM    CHILLINGLY.  399 

ring  and  carried  it  off ;  a  very  poor  little  simple  ring,  with 
a  single  stone,  shaped  as  a  heart,  not  half  the  price  of  the 
locket. 

Kenelm  rejoined  the  young  ladies  just  where  the  path 
split  into  two,  the  one  leading  direct  to  Grasmere,  the  other 
through  the  churchyard  to  the  Vicarage.  He  presented  the 
locket  to  Clemmy  with  brief  kindly  w^ords  which  easily  re- 
moved any  scruple  she  might  have  had  in  accepting  it  ;  and, 
delighted  with  her  acquisition,  she  bounded  off  to  the  Vicar- 
age, impatient  to  show  the  prize  to  her  mamma  and  sisters, 
and  more  especially  to  Miss  Mary  Burrows,  who  was  com- 
ing to  lunch  with  them. 

Kenelm  walked  on  slowly  by  Lily's  side. 

'^  You  have  a  good  heart,  Mr.  Chillingly,"  said  she,  some- 
what abruptly.  "  How  it  must  please  you  to  give  such 
pleasure  !     Dear  little  Clemmy  !" 

This  artless  praise,  and  the  perfect  absence  of  envy  or 
thought  of  self  evinced  by  her  joy  that  her  friend's  wish  was 
gratified  tho;:gh  her  own  was  not,  enchanted  Kenelm. 

"  If  it  pleases  to  give  pleasure,"  said  he,  "  it  is  your  turn 
to  be  pleased  now  :  you  can  confer  such  pleasure  upon 
me." 

"  How  ?  "  she  asked,  falteringly,  and  with  quick  change  of 
color. 

"  By  conceding  to  me  the  same  right  your  little  friend 
has  allowed." 

And  he  drew  forth  the  ring. 

Lily  reared  her  head  with  a  first  impulse  of  haughtiness. 
But  when  her  eyes  met  his  the  head  drooped  down  again, 
and  a  slight  shiver  ran  through  her   frame. 

"  Miss  Mordaunt,"  resumed  Kenelm,  mastering  his  pas- 
sionate longing  to  fall  at  her  feet  and  say,  "But,  oh  !  in  this 
ring  it  is  my  love  that  I  offer — it  is  my  troth  that  I  pledge  !  " 
"  Miss  Mordaunt,  spare  me  the  misery  of  thinking  that  I 
have  offended  you  ;  least  of  all  would  I  do  so  on  this  day, 
for  it  may  be  some  little  while  before  I  see  you  again.  I 
am  going  home  for  a  few  days  upon  a  matter  which  may 
affect  the  happiness  of  my  life,  and  on  which  I  should  be  a 
bad  son  and  an  unworthy  gentleman  if  I  did  not  consult 
him  who,  in  all  that  concerns  my  affections,  has  trained  me 
to- turn  to  him,  the  father;  in  all  that  concerns  my  honor, 
to  him,  the  gentleman." 

A  speech  more  unlike  that  which  any  delineator  of  man- 
ners and  morals  in  the    present  day   would  put  into  the 


400  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

moutli  of  a  lover,  no  critic  in  "The  Londoner"  could  ridi- 
cule. But,  somehow  or  other,  tliis  poor  little  tamer  of  but- 
terflies and  teller  of  fairy-tales  comprehended  on  the  instant 
all  that  this  most  eccentric  of  human  beings  thus  frigidly  left 
untold.  Into  her  innermost  heart  it  sank  more  deeply  than 
would  the  most  ardent  declaration  put  into  the  lips  of  the 
boobies  or  the  scamps  in  whom  delineators  of  manners  in 
the  present  day  too  often  debase  the  magnificent  chivalry 
embodied  in  the  name  of  "Lover." 

Where  these  two  had,  while  speaking,  halted  on  the  path 
along  the  brook-side,  there  was  a  bench,  on  wliich  it  so  hap- 
pened that  th(>y  had  seated  themselves  weeks  before.  A 
few  moments  later,  on  that  bench  they  were  seated  again. 

And  the  trumpery  little  ring  with  its  turquoise  heart 
was  on  Lily's  finger,  and  there  they  continued  to  sit  for 
nearly  half  an  Iumu"  ;  not  talking  much,  but  wondrously 
happy;  not  a  single  vow  of  troth  interchanged.  No,  not 
even  a  word  that  ccnild  be  construed  into  "  I  love."  And 
yet  when  they  rose  from  the  bench,  and  went  silently  along 
the  brook-side,  each  knew  that  the  other  was  beloved. 

When  they  reached  the  gate  that  admitted  into  the  gar- 
den of  Grasmere,  Kenelm  made  a  slight  start.  Mrs.  Came- 
ron was  leaning  over  the  gate.  Whatever  alarm  at  the 
appearance  Kenelm  might  have  felt  was  certainly  not  shared 
by  Lily  ;  she  advanced  lightly  before  him,  kissed  her  aunt 
on  the  cheek,  and  passed  on  across  the  lawn  with  a  bound 
in  her  step  and  the  carol  of  a  song  upon  her  lips. 

Kenelm  remained  by  the  gate,  face  to  face  with  Mrs. 
Cameron.  She  opened  the  gate,  put  her  arm  in  his,  and 
led  him  hack  along  the  brook-side. 

"  I  am  sure,  Mr.  Chillingly,"  she  said,  "that  you  will 
not  impute  to  my  words  any  meaning  more  grave  than  that 
which  I  wish  them  to  convey,  when  I  remind  you  that  there 
is  no  place  too  obscure  to  escape  from  the  ill-nature  of  gos- 
sip ;  and  you  must  own  that  my  niece  incurs  the  chance  of 
its  notice  if  she  be  seen  walking  alone  in  these  by-paths 
\\ith  a  man  of  your  age  and  position,  and  whose  sojourn  in 
the  neighborhood,  without  any  ostensible  object  or  motive, 
has  already  begun  to  excite  conjecture.  I  do  not  for  a 
moment  assume  that  you  regard  my  niece  in  any  other  light 
than  that  of  an  artless  child  whose  originality  of  tastesor 
fancy  may  serve  to  amuse  you  ;  and  still  less  do  I  suppose 
that  she  is  in  danger  of  misrepresenting  any  attentions  on 
your  part.     But  for  her  sake  I  am  bound  to  consider  what 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  401 

Others  may  say.  Excuse  me  then  if  I  add  that  I  think  you 
are  also  bound  in  honor  and  in  good  feeling  to  do  the  same. 
Mr.  Chillingly,  it  would  give  me  a  great  sense  of  relief  if  it 
suited  your  plans  to  move  from  the  neighborhood." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Cameron,"  answered  Keuelm,  who  had 
listened  to  this  speech  wnth  imperturbable  calm  of  visage, 
"  I  thank  you  much  for  your  candor,  and  I  am  glad  to  have 
this  opportunity  of  informing  you  that  I  am  about  to  move 
from  this  neighborhood,  with  the  hope  of  returning  to  it  in 
a  very  few  days  and  rectifying  your  mistake  as  to  the'point 
of  view  in  which  I  regard  your  niece.  In  a  word,"  here  the 
expression  of  his  countenance  and  the  tone  of  his  voice 
underwent  a  sudden  change,  "  it  is  the  dearest  wish  of  my 
heart  to  be  empowered  by  my  parents  to  assure  you  of  the 
warmth  with  which  they  will  welcome  your  niece  as  their 
daughter,  should  she  deign  to  listen  to  my  suit  and  intrust 
me  with  the  charge  of  her  liappiness." 

Mrs.  Cameron  stopped  short,  gazing  into  his  face  with 
a  look  of  inexpressible  dismay. 

"No!  Mr.  Chillingly,"  she  exclaimed,  "this  must  not  be 
— cannot  be.  Put  out  of  your  mind  an  idea  so  wild.  A 
young  man's  senseless  romance.  Your  parents  cannot  con- 
sent to  your  union  with  my  niece  ;  I  tell  3'ou  beforehand 
they  cannot." 

"  But  why  ?  "  said  Kenelm,  with  a  slight  smile,  and  not 
much  impressed  by  the  vehemence  of  Mrs.  Cameron's  adju- 
ration. 

"  Why  ? "  she  repeated,  passionately  ;  and  then  recover- 
ing something  of  her  habitual  weariness  of  quiet.  "The 
why  is  easily  explained.  Mr.  Kenelm  Chillingly  is  the  heir 
of  a  very  ancient  house,  and,  I  am  told,  of  considerable  es- 
tates. Lily  Mordaunt  is  a  nobody,  an  orphan,  without  for- 
tune, without  connection,  tlie  ward  of  a  humbly  born  artist, 
to  whom  she  owes  the  roof  that  shelters  her  ;  she  is  without 
the  ordinary  education  of  a  gentlewoman  ;  she  has  seen 
nothing  of  the  world  in  which  you  move.  Your  parents 
have  not  the  right  to  allow  a  son  so  young  as  yourself  to 
throw  himself  out  of  his  proper  sphere  by  a  rash  and  impru- 
dent alliance.  And  never  would  I  consent,  never  would 
Walter  Melville  consent,  to  her  entering  into  any  family 
reluctant  to  receive  her.  There — that  is  enough.  Dismiss 
the  notion  so  lightly  entertained.     And  farewell." 

"Madam,"  answered  Kenelm,  very  earnestly,  "believe 
me,  that  had   I  not  entertained  the    hope   approaching  to 


402  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

conviction  that  the  reasons  you  urge  against  my  prcsump. 
tion  will  not  have  the  weight  with  my  parents  which  you 
ascribe  to  them,  I  should  not  have  spoken  to  you  thus 
frankly.  Young  though  I  be,  still  I  might  fairly  claim  the 
right  to  choose  for  myself  in  marriage.  But  I  gave  to  my 
father  a  very  binding  promise  that  I  would  not  formally 
propose  to  any  one  till  1  had  acquainted  him  with  my  desire 
to  do  so,  and  obtained  his  approval  of  my  choice  ;  and  he 
is  the  last  man  in  the  world  who  would  withhold  that  ap- 
proval where  my  heart  is  set  on  it  as  it  is  now.  I  want  no 
fortune  with  a  wife,  and  should  I  ever  care  to  advance  my 
position  in  the  world  no  connection  could  help  me  like  the 
approving  smile  of  the  woman  I  love.  There  is  but  one 
qualification  which  my  parents  would  deem  they  had  the 
right  to  exact  from  my  choice  of  one  who  is  to  bear  our 
name.  I  mean  that  she  should  have  the  appearance,  the 
manners,  the  principles,  and — my  mother  at  least  might  add 
— the  birth  of  a  gentlewoman.  Well,  as  to  appearance  and 
manners,  I  have  seen  much  of  fine  society  from  my  boyhood, 
and  found  no  one  among  the  highest-born  who  can  excel 
the  exquisite  refinement  of  every  look,  and  the  inborn  del- 
icacy of  every  thought,  in  her  of  whom,  if  mine,  I  shall  be 
as  proud  as  I  shall  be  fond.  As  to  defects  in  the  frippery 
and  tinsel  of  a  boarding-school  education,  they  are  very 
soon  remedied.  Remains  only  the  last  consideration — 
birth.  Mrs.  Braefield  informs  me  that  you  have  assured  her 
that,  though  circumstances  into  which  as  yet  I  have  no 
right  to  inquire  have  made  her  the  ward  of  a  man  of  humble 
origin.  Miss  Mordaunt  is  of  gentle  birth.  Do  you  deny 
tha\?" 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Cameron,  hesitating,  but  with  a  flash 
of  pride  in  her  eyes  as  she  went  (mi.  "No.  I  cannot  deny 
that  my  niece  is  descended  from  those  who,  in  point  of 
birth  ,  were  not  unecjual  to  your  own  ancestors.  But  what 
of  that?"  she  added,  with  a  l)itter  despondency  of  tone. 
"  Equality  of  birth  ceases  when  one  falls  into  poverty,  ob- 
scuritv,  nes^lect,  nothinsifness  !  ' 

"Really  this  is  a  morbid  habit  on  your  part.  But  since 
we  have  thus  spoken  so  confidentially,  will  you  not  em- 
power me  to  answer  the  question  which  will  probably  be 
put  to  me,  and  the  answer  to  which  will,  I  doubt  not,  re- 
move every  obstacle  in  the  way  of  my  happiness  ?  What- 
ever the  reasons  which  might  very  sufficiently  induce  you  to 
preserve,  whilst  living  so  quietly  in  this  place,  a  discreet 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  403 

silence  as  to  the  parentage  of  Miss  Mordaunt  and  your  own, 
— and  I  am  well  aware  that  those  whom  altered  circum- 
stances of  fortune  have  compelled  to  altered  modes  of  life 
may  disdain  to  parade  to  strangers  the  pretensions  to  a 
higher  station  than  that  to  which  they  reconcile  their 
habits, — whatever,  I  say,  such  reasons  for  silence  to 
strangers,  should  they  preclude  you  from  confiding  to  me, 
an  aspirant  to  your  niece's  hand,  a  secret  which,  after  all, 
cannot  be  concealed  from  her  future  husband  ?  " 

"  From  her  future  husband  ?  of  course  not,"  answered 
Mrs.  Cameron.  "  But  I  decline  to  be  questioned  by  one 
whom  I  may  never  see  again,  and  of  whom  I  know  so 
little.  I  decline,  indeed,  to  assist  in  removing  any  obstacle 
to  a  union  with  my  niece,  which  I  hold  to  be  in  every  way 
unsuited  to  either  party.  I  have  no  cause  even  to  believe 
that  my  niece  would  accept  you  if  you  were  free  to  propose 
to  her.  You  have  not,  I  presume,  spoken  to  her  as  an  as- 
pirant to  her  hand.  You  have  not  addressed  to  her  any  de- 
claration of  your  attachment,  or  sought  to  extract  from  her 
inexperience  any  words  that  warrant  you  in  thinking  that 
her  heart  will  break  if  she  never  sees  you  again  ?" 

"  I  do  not  merit  such  cruel  and  taunting  questions,"  said 
Kenelm,  indignantly.  *' But  I  will  say  no  more  now.  When 
we  again  meet,  let  me  hope  you  will  treat  me  less  unkindly. 
Adieu  !  " 

"  Stay,  sir.  A  word  or  two  more.  You  persist  in  ask- 
ing your  father  and  Lady  Chillingly  to  consent  to  your  pro- 
posal to  Miss  Mordaunt .?  " 

"  Certainly  I  do." 

"  And  you  will  promise  me,  on  your  word  as  a  gentleman, 
to  state  fairly  all  the  causes  which  might  fairly  operate 
against  their  consent  ;  the  poverty,  the  humble  rearing,  the 
imperfect  education  of  my  niece  ;  so  that  they  might  not 
hereafter  say  you  had  entrapped  their  consent,  and  avenge 
themselves  for  your  deceit  by  contempt  for  her  ?" 

"Ah,  madam,  madam,  you  really  try  my  patience  too 
far.  But  take  my  promise,  if  you  can  hold  that  of  value 
from  one  whom  you  can  suspect  of  deliberate  deceit." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Chillingly.  Bear  with  my 
rudeness.  I  have  been  so  taken  by  surprise  I  scarcely  know 
what  I  am  saying.  But  let  us  understand  each  other  com- 
pletely before  we  part.  If  your  parents  withhold  their  con- 
sent you  will  communicate  it  to  me  ;  me  only,  not  to  Lily. 
I  repeat,  I  know  nothing  of  the  state  of  her  affections.     But 


404 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 


it  might  embitter  any   girl's  life  to  be  led  on  to  love  one 
whom  she  could  not  marry." 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  say.     But  if  they  do  consent  ?  " 

"  Then  you  will  speak  to  me  before  you  seek  an  inter- 
view with  Lily  ;  for  then  comes  another  question  :  Will  her 
guardian  consent  ? — and— and " 

"And  what?" 

"  No  matter.  I  rely  on  your  honor  in  this  request,  as  in 
all  else.     Good-day." 

She  turned  back  with  hurried  footsteps,  muttering  to 
herself,  "  But  they  will  not  consent.  Heaven  grant  that 
they  will  not  consent,  or,  if  they  do,  what — what  is  to  be 
said  or  done  ?  Oh,  tliat  Walter  Melville  were  here,  or  that  I 
knew  where  to  write  to  him  !  " 

On  his  way  back  to  Cromwell  Lodge,  Kenelm  was  over- 
taken by  the  vicar. 

"I  was  coming  to  you,  my  dear  Mr.  Chillingly,  first  to 
thank  you  for  the  very  pretty  present  with  which  you  have 
gladdened  the  heart  of  my  little  Clemmy,  and  next  to  ask 

you  to  come  with  me  quietly  to-day  to  meet  Mr. ,  the 

celebrated  antiquarian,  who  came  to  Moleswich  this  morn- 
ing at  my  request,  to  examine  that  old  gothic  tomb  in  our 
church-yard.  Only  think, — though  he  cannot  read  the  in- 
scription aity  better  than  we  can,  he  knows  all  about  its 
history.  It  seems  that  a  young  knight,  renowned  for  feats 
of  valor  in  the  reign  of  Henry  IV.,  married  a  daughter  of 
one  of  those  great  Earls  of  Montfichet  who  were  then  the 
most  powerful  family  in  these  parts.  He  was  slain  in  de- 
fending the  church  from  an  assault  by  some  disorderly 
rioters  of  the  Lollard  faction ;  he  fell  on  the  very  spot 
where  the  tomb  is  now  placed.  That  accounts  for  its  situa- 
tion in  the  churchyard,  not  within  the  fabric.  Mr, dis- 
covered this  fact  in  an  old  memoir  of  the  ancient  and  once 
famous  family  to  which  the  young  knight  Albert  belonged, 
and  which  came,  alas  !  to  so  shameful  an  end, — the  Flet- 
wodes,  Barons  of  Fletwode  and  Malpas.  What  a  triumph 
over  pretty  Lily  Mordaunt,  who  always  chose  to  imagine 
that  the  tomb  must  be  that  of  some  heroine  of  her  own  or- 

mantic  invention  !     Do  come  to  dinner;  Mr.  is  a  most 

agreeable  man,  and  full  of  interesting  anecdote." 

"  I  am  so  sorry  I  cannot.  I  am  obliged  to  return  home 
at  once  for  a  few  days.  That  old  family  of  Fletwode  !  I 
think  I  see  before  me,  while  we  speak,  the  gray  tower  in 
which  they  once  held  sway ;  and  the  last  of  the  race  follow- 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  405 

ing  Mammon  along  the  Progress  of  the  Age — a  convicted 
felon  !     What  a  terrible  satire  on  the  pride  of  birth !" 

Kenelm  left  Cromwell  Lodge  that  evening,  but  he  still 
kept  on  his  apartments  there,  saying  he  might  be  back  un- 
expectedly any  day  in  the  course  of  the  next  week. 

He  remained  two  days  in  London,  wishing  all  that  he  had 
communicated  to  Sir  Peter  in  writing  to  sink  into  his  father's 
heart  before  a  personal  appeal  to  it. 

The  more  he  revolved  the  ungracious  manner  in  which 
Mrs.  Cameron  had  received  his  confidence,  the  less  impor- 
tance he  attached  to  it.  An  exaggerated  sense  of  disparities 
of  fortune  in  a  person  who  appeared  to  him  to  have  the  pride 
so  common  to  those  who  have  known  better  days,  coupled 
with  a  nervous  apprehension  lest  his  family  should  ascribe 
to  her  any  attempt  to  insnare  a  very  young  man  of  consider- 
able worldly  pretensions  into  a  marriage  with  a  penniless 
niece,  seemed  to  account  for  much  that  had  at  first  perplexed 
and  angered  him.  And  if,  as  he  conjectured,  Mrs.  Cameron 
had  once  held  a  much  higher  position  in  the  world  than  she 
did  now — a  conjecture  warranted  by  a  certain  peculiar  con- 
ventional undeniable  elegance  which  characterized  her  habit- 
ual manner — -and  was  now,  as  she  implied,  actually  a  depend- 
ant on  the  bounty  of  a  painter  who  had  only  just  acquired 
some  professional  distinction  she  might  well  shrink  from 
the  mortification  of  becoming  an  object  of  compassion  to  her 
richer  neighbors  ;  nor,  Avhen  he  came  to  think  of  it,  had  he 
any  more  right  than  those  neighbors  to  any  confidence  as  to 
her  own  or  Lily's  parentage,  so  long  as  he  was  not  formally 
entitled  to  claim  admission  into  her  privity. 

London  seemed  to  him  intolerably  dull  and  wearisome. 
He  called  nowhere  except  at  Lady  Glenalv^on's  :  he  was  glad 
to  hear  from  the  servants  that  she  was  still  at  Exmundham. 
He  relied  much  on  the  influence  of  the  queen  of  the  Fashion 
with  his  mother,  who  he  knew  woidd  be  more  difficult  to 
persuade  than  Sir  Peter,  nor  did  he  doubt  that  he  should 
win  to  his  side  that  sympathizing  and  warm-hearted  queen. 


4o6  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

It  is  somewhere  about  three  weeks  since  the  party  invited 
by  Sir  Peter  and  Lady  Chillingly  assembled  at  Exmundham, 
and  they  are  still  there,  though  people  invited  to  a  country 
house  have  seldom  compassion  enough  for  the  dullness  of  its 
owner  to  stay  more  than  three  days.  Mr.  Chillingly  Mivers, 
indeed,  had  not  exceeded  that  orthodox  limit.  Cjuietly  ob- 
servant, during  his  stay,  of  young  Gordon's  manner  towards 
Cecilia,  and  hers  towards  him,  he  had  satisfied  himself  that 
there  was  no  cause  to  alarm  Sir  Peter  or  induce  the  worthy 
baronet  to  regret  the  invitation  he  had  given  to  that  clever 
kinsman.  For  all  the  visitors  remaining,  Exnuuidham  had 
a  charm. 

To  Lady  Glenalvon,  because  in  the  hostess  she  met  her 
most  familiar  friend  when  both  were  young  girls,  and  because 
it  pleased  her  to  note  the  interest  which  Cecilia  Travers  took 
in  the  place  so, associated  with  memories  of  the  man  to  whom 
it  was  Lady  Glcnalvon's  hope  to  see  her  united.  To  Gordon 
Chillingly,  because  no  opportunity  could  be  so  favorable  for 
his  own  well-concealed  designs  on  the  hand  and  heart  of  the 
heiress.  To  the  heiress  herself  the  charm  needs  no  explan- 
ation. 

To  Leopold  Travers  the  attractions  of  Exmundham  were 
unquestionably  less  fascinating.  Still,  even  he  was  well 
pleased  to  prolong  his  stay.  His  active  mind  found  amuse- 
ment in  wandcrinc:  over  an  estate  the  acreage  of  which  would 
have  warranted  a  much  larp-er  rental,  and  lecturinc;  Sir  Peter 
on  the  old-fashioned  system  of  husbandry  which  that  good- 
natured  easy  proprict<jr  permitted  his  tenants  to  adopt,  as 
well  as  on  the  number  of  superfluous  hands  that  were  em- 
ployed on  the  pleasure-grounds  and  in  the  general  manage- 
of  the  estate,  such  as  carpenters,  sawyers,  woodmen,  brick- 
layers, and  smiths. 

When  the  Squire  said,  *'You  could  do  just  as  well  with 
a  third  of  those  costly  dependants,"  Sir  Peter,  unconsciously 
plagiarizing  the  answer  of  the  old  French  grand  seigneur, 
replied,  "Very  likely.  But  the  question  is,  could  the  rest 
do  just  as  well  without  me  ?" 

Exmundham,  indeed,  was  a  very  expensive  place  to  keep 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  407 

up.  The  house,  built  by  some  ambitious  Chillingly  three 
centuries  ago,  would  have  been  large  for  an  owner  of  thrice 
the  revenues  ;  and  though  the  flower-garden  was  smaller  than 
that  at  Braefieldville,  there  were  paths  and  drives  through 
miles  of  young  plantations  and  old  woodlands  that  furnished 
lazy  occupation  to  an  army  of  laborers.  No  wonder  that, 
despite  his  nominal  ten  thousand  a  year,  Sir  Peter  was  far 
from  being  a  rich  man.  Exmundham  devoured  at  least  half 
the  renial  The  active  mind  of  Leopold  Travers  also  found 
ample  occupation  in  the  stores  of  his  host's  extensive  library. 
Travers,  never  much  of  a  reader,  was  by  no  means  a  despiser 
of  learning,  and  he  soon  took  to  historical  and  archaeological 
researches  with  the  ardor  of  a  man  who  must  always  throw 
energy  into  any  pursuit  that  occasion  presents  as  an  escape 
from  indolence.  Indolent,  Leopold  Travers  never  could  be. 
But,  more  than  either  of  these  resources  of  occupation,  the 
companionship  of  Chillingly  Gordon  excited  his  interest  and 
quickened  the  current  of  his  thoughts.  Always  fond  of  re- 
newing his  own  youth  in  the  society  of  the  young,  and  of  the 
sympathizing  temperament  which  belongs  to  cordial  natures, 
he  had,  as  we  have  seen,  entered  very  heartily  into  the  ambi- 
tion of  George  Belvoir,  and  reconciled  himself  very  pliably  to 
the  humors  of  Kenelm  Chillingly.  But  the  first  of  these  two 
was  a  little  too  commonplace,  the  second  a  little  too  eccen- 
tric, to  enlist  the  complete  good-fellowship  which,  being  alike 
very  clever  and  very  practical,  Leopold  Travers  established 
with  that  very  clever  and  very  practical  representative  of  the 
rising  generation.  Chillingly  Gordon.  Between  them  there 
was  this  meeting-ground,  political  and  worldly, — a  great  con- 
tempt for  innocuous  old-fashioned  notions  ;  added  to  which, 
in  the  mind  of  Leopold  Travers,  was  a  contempt — which 
would  have  been  complete,  but  that  the  contempt  admitted 
dread —of  harmful  new-fashioned  notions  which,  interpreted 
by  his  thoughts,  threatened  ruin  to  his  country  and  downfall 
to  the  follies  of  existent  society,  and  which,  interpreted  by 
his  language,  tamed  itself  into  the  man  of  the  world's  phrase, 
"  Going  too  far  for  me."  Notions  which,  by  the  much  more 
cultivated  intellect  and  the  immeasurably  more  soaring  am- 
bition of  Chillingly  Gordon,  might  be  viewed  and  criticized 
thus  :  "  Could  I  accept  these  doctrines  ?  I  don't  see  my  way 
to  being  Prime  Minister  of  a  country  in  which  religion  and 
capital  are  still  powers  to  be  consulted.  And,  putting  aside 
religion  and  capital.  I  don't  see  how,  if  these  doctrines  passed 
into  law,  with  a  good  coat  on  my  back  I  should  not  be  a  suf« 


4o8  KENELM   CIIILLINGLY. 

ferer.  Eitlier  I,  as  having  a  good  coat,  should  have  it  torn 
off  my  back  as  a  capitalist,  or,  if  I  remonstrated  in  the  name 
of  moral  honesty,  be  put  to  death  as  a  religionist." 

Therefore  when  Leopold  Travers  said,  "  Of  course  Ave 
must  go  on,"  Chillingly  Gordon  smiled  and  answered,  "  Cer- 
tainly, go  on."  And  when  Leopold  Travers  added,  "  But 
we  may  go  too  far,"  Chillingly  Gordon  shook  his  head  and 
replied,  "  How  true  that  is  !     Certainly,  too  far." 

Apart  from  the  congeniality  of  political  sentiment,  there 
were  other  points  of  friendly  contact  between  the  older  and 
younger  man.  Each  was  an  exceedingly  pleasant  man  of 
the  world  ;  and,  though  Leopold  Travers  could  not  have 
plumbed  certain  deeps  in  Chillingly  Gordon's  nature — and 
in  every  man's  nature  there  are  deeps  which  his  ablest  ob- 
server cannot  fathom — yet  he  was  not  wrong  when  he  said 
to  himself,  "Gordon  is  a  gentleman." 

Utterly  would  my  readers  misconceive  that  very  clever 
young  man,  if  they  held  him  to  be  a  hypocrite  like  Blifd  or 
Joseph  Surface.  Chillingly  Gordon,  in  every  private  sense 
of  the  word,  was  a  gentleman.  If  he  had  staked  his  whole 
fortune  on  a  rubber  at  whist,  and  an  imdctected  glance  at 
his  adversary's  hand  would  have  made  the  difference  be- 
tween loss  and  gain,  he  would  have  turned  away  his  head 
and  said,  "  Hold  up  your  cards."  Neither,  as  I  have  had 
occasion  to  explain  before,  was  he  actuated  by  any  motive 
in  common  with  the  vulgar  fortune-hunter  in  his  secret 
resolve  to  win  the  hand  of  the  lieiress.  He  recognized  no 
inequality  of  worldly  gifts  between  them.  He  said  to  him- 
self, "  Whatever  she  may  give  me  in  money,  I  shall  amply 
repay  in  worldly  position  if  I  succeed  ;  and  succeed  I  cer- 
tainly shall.  If  I  were  as  rich  as  Lord  Westminster,  and 
still  caring  abcMit  being  Prime  Minister,  I  should  select  her 
as  the  most  fitlinu:  woman  I  have  seen  for  a  Prime  INlInis- 
ter's  wife." 

It  must  be  acknowledged  that  this  sort  of  self-commune, 
if  not  that  of  a  very  ardent  lover,  is  verv  much  that  of  a 
sensible  man  settins:  hitrh  value  on  himself,  bent  on  achiev- 
ing  the  prizes  of  a  public  career,  and  desirous  of  securing 
in  his  wife  a  woman  who  would  adorn  the  station  to  which 
he  confidently  aspired.  In  fact,  no  one  so  able  as  Chillingly 
Gordon  would  ever  have  conceived  the  ambition  of  being 
Minister  of  England  if,  in  all  that  in  private  life  constitutes 
the  English  gentleman,  he  could  be  fairly  subject  to  re- 
proach. 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  409 

He  was  but  in  public  life  what  many  a  gentleman  honest 
in  private  life  has  been  before  him,  an  ambitious,  resolute 
egotist,  by  no  means  without  personal  affections,  but  hold- 
ing them  all  subordinate  to  the  objects  of  personal  ambi- 
tion, and  with  no  more  of  other  principle  than  that  of  ex- 
pediency in  reference  to  his  own  career,  than  would  cover 
a  silver  penny.  But  expediency  in  itself  he  deemed  the 
statesman's  only  rational  principle.  And  to  the  considera- 
tion of  expediency  he  brought  a  very  unprejudiced  intellect, 
quite  fitted  to  decide  whether  the  public  opinion  of  a  free 
and  enlightened  people  was  for  turning  St.  Paul's  Cathe- 
dral into  an  Agapemone  or  not. 

During  the  summer  weeks  he  had  thus  vouchsafed  to  the 
turfs  and  groves  of  Exmundham,  Leopold  Travers  was  not 
the  only  person  whose  good  opinion  Chillingly  Gordon  had 
ingratiated.  He  had  won  the  warmest  approbation  from 
Mrs.  Campion.  His  conversation  reminded  her  of  that 
which  she  had  enjoyed  in  the  house  of  her  departed  spouse. 
In  talking  with  Cecilia  she  was  fond  of  contrasting  him  to 
Kenelm,  not  to  the  favor  of  the  latter,  whose  humors  she 
utterly  failed  to  understand,  and  whom  she  pertinaciously 
described  as  "so  affected."  "A  most  superior  young  man 
Mr.  Gordon,  so  well  informed,  so  sensible,  above  all,  so 
natural."  Such  was  her  judgment  upon  theunavowed  can- 
didate to  Cecilia's  hand,  and  Mrs.  Campion  required  no 
avowal  to  divine  the  candidature.  Even  Lady  Glenalvon 
had  begun  to  take  friendly  interest  in  the  fortunes  of  this 
promising  young  man.  Most  women  can  sympathize  with 
youthful  ambition.  He  impressed  her  with  a  deep  convic- 
tion of  his  abilities,  and  still  more  with  respect  for  their 
concentration  upon  practical  objects  of  power  and  renown. 
She  too,  like  Mrs.  Campion,  began  to  draw  comparisons 
unfavorable  to  Kenelm  between  the  two  cousins  ;  the  one 
seemed  so  slothfully  determined  to  hide  his  candle  under  a 
bushel,  the  other  so  honestly  disposed  to  set  his  light  before 
men.  She  felt  also  annoyed  and  angry  that  Kenelm  was 
thus  absenting  himself  from  the  paternal  home  at  the  very 
time  of  her  first  visit  to  it,  and  when  he  had  so  felicitous  an 
opportunity  of  seeing  more  of  the  girl  in  whom  he  knew 
that  Lady  Glenalvon  deemed  he  might  win,  if  he  would 
properly  woo,  the  wife  that  would  best  suit  him.  So  that 
when  one  day  Mrs.  Campion,  walking  through  the  gardens 
alone  with  Lady  Glenalvon,  while  from  the  gardens  into 
the  park  went  Chillingly  Gordon  arm-in-arm  with  Leopold 
18 


4IC  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

Travers,  abruptly  asked,  "Don't  you  think  that  Mr.  Gordon 
is  smitten  with  Cecilia,  though  he,  with  his  moderate  for- 
tune, does  not  dare  to  say  so  ?  And  don't  you  think  that 
any  girl,  if  she  were  as  rich  as  Cecilia  will  be,  would  be 
more  proud  of  such  a  husband  as  Chillingly  Gordon  than 
of  some  silly  Earl  ?" 

Lady  Glenalvon  answered  curtly,  but  somewhat  sorrow- 
fully— 

"Yes." 

After  a  pause,  she  added,  "There  is  a  man  with  whom  I 
did  once  think  she  would  have  been  happier  than  with  any 
other  ;  one  man  who  ought  to  be  dearer  to  me  than  Mr. 
Gordon,  for  he  saved  the  life  of  my  son,  and  who,  though 
perhaps  less  clever  than  Mr.  Gordon,  still  has  a  great  deal  of 
talent  within  him,  which  might  come  forth  and  make  him 
— what  shall  I  say  ? — a  useful  and  distinguished  member  of 
society,  if  married  to  a  girl  so  sure  of  raising  any  man  she 
marries  as  Cecilia  Travers.  But  if  I  am  to  renounce  that 
hope,  and  look  through  the  range  of  young  men  brought 
imder  my  notice,  I  don't  know  one,  putting  aside  considera- 
tion of  rank  and  ft)rtunc,  I  should  prcfcrfor  a  clever  daugh- 
ter who  went  heart  and  soul  with  the  ambition  of  a  clever 
man.  But,  Mrs.  Campion,  I  have  not  yet  quite  renounced 
my  hope  ;  and,  unless  I  do,  I  yet  think  there  is  one  man  to 
whom  I  would  rather  give  Cecilia,  if  she  were  my  daughter." 

Therewith  Lady  Glenalvon  so  decidedly  broke  off  the 
subject  of  conversation,  that  Mrs.  Campion  could  not  have 
renewed  it  without  such  a  breach  of  the  female  etiquette 
of  good  breeding  as  Mrs.  Campion  was  the  last  person  to 
adventure. 

Lady  Chillingly  could  not  help  being  pleased  with  Gor- 
don, lie  was  light  in  hand,  served  to  amuse  her  guests,  and 
made  up  a  rubber  of  whist  in  case  of  need. 

There  were  two  persons,  however,  with  whom  Gordon 
made  no  ground,  viz..  Parson  John  and  Sir  Peter.  When 
Travers  praised  him  one  day  for  the  solidity  of  his  parts  and 
the  soundness  of  his  judgment,  the  Parson  replied,  snap- 
pishly, "  Yes,  solid  and  sound  as  one  of  those  tables  you  buy 
at  a  broker's  :  the  thickness  of  the  varnish  hides  the  defects 
in  the  joints  ;  the  whole  framework  is  rickety."  But  when 
the  Parson  was  indignantly  urged  to  state  the  reason  by 
which  he  arrived  at  so  harsh  a  conclusion,  he  could  only  re- 
ply by  an  assertion  which  seemed  to  his  questioner  a  de- 
clamatory burst  of  parsonic  intolerance. 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  411 

"  Because,"  said  Parson  John,  "  he  has  no  love  for  man, 
and  no  reverence  for  God.  And  no  character  is  sound  and 
solid  which  enlarges  its  surface  at  the  expense  of  its  sup- 
ports." 

On  the  other  hand,  the  favor  with  wliich  Sir  Peter  had  at 
first  regarded  Gordon  gradually  vanished,  in  proportion  as, 
acting  on  the  hint  Mivers  had  originally  thrown  out  but  did 
not  deem  it  necessary  to  repeat,  he  watched  the  pains  which 
the  young  man  took  to  insinuate  himself  into  the  good  graces 
of  Mr.  Travers  and  Mrs.  Campion,  and  the  artful  and  half- 
suppressed  gallantry  of  his  manner  to  the  heiress. 

Perhaps  Gordon  had  not  ventured  thus  "  to  feel  his  way  " 
till  after  Mivers  had  departed  ;  or  perhaps  Sir  Peter's  paren- 
tal anxiety  rendered  him  in  this  instance  a  shrewder  ob- 
server than  was  the  man  of  the  world,  whose  natural  acute- 
ness  was,  in  matters  of  affection,  not  unfrequently  rendered 
languid  by  his  acquired  philosophy  of  indifferentism. 

More  and  more  ever)-  day,  every  hour,  of  her  sojourn 
beneath  his  roof,  did  Cecilia  become  dearer  to  Sir  Peter, 
and  stronger  and  stronger  became  his  wisli  to  secure  her  for 
his  daughter-in-law.  He  was  inexpressibly  flattered  by  her 
preference  for  his  company  ;  ever  at  hand  to  share  his  cus- 
tomary walks,  his  kindly  visits  to  the  cottages  of  peasants 
or  the  homesteads  of  petty  tenants  ;  wherein  both  were  sure 
to  hear  many  a  simple  anecdote  of  Master  Kenelm  in  his 
childhood,  anecdotes  of  whim  or  good  nature,  of  considerate 
pity  or  reckless  courage. 

Throughout  all  these  varieties  of  thought  or  feeling  in 
the  social  circle  around  her,  Lady  Chillingly  preserved  the 
unmoved  calm  of  her  dignified  position.  A  very  good 
woman  certainly,  and  very  ladylike.  No  one  could  detect  a 
flaw  in  her  character,  or  a  fold  awry  in  her  flounce.  She 
was  only,  like  the  gods  of  Epicurus,  too  good  to  trouble  her 
serene  existence  with  the  cares  of  us  simple  mortals.  Not 
that  she  was  without  a  placid  satisfaction  in  the  tribute 
which  the  world  laid  upon  her  altars  ;  nor  was  she  so  su- 
premely goddess-like  as  to  soar  above  the  household  affec- 
tions which  humanity  entails  on  the  dwellers  and  denizens  of 
earth.  She  liked  her  husband  as  much  as  most  elderly  wives 
like  their  elderly  husbands.  She  bestowed  upon  Kenelm  a 
liking  somewhat  more  warm,  and  mingled  wuth  compassion. 
His  eccentricities  would  have  puzzled  her,  if  she  had  allowed 
herself  to  be  puzzled  :  it  troubled  her  less  to  pity  them.  She 
did  not  share  her  husband's  desire  for  his  union  with  Cecilia. 


412  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

She  thought  that  her  son  would  have  a  higher  place  in  the 
county  if  he  married  Lady  Jane,  the  Duke  of  Clareville's 
daugliter  ;  and  "  that  is  what  he  ought  to, do,"  said  Lady 
Chillingly  to  herself.  She  entertained  none  of  the  fear  that 
had  induced  Sir  Peter  to  extract  from  Kenelm  the  promise 
not  to  pledge  his  hand  b(;fore  he  had  received  his  father's 
consent.  That  the  son  of  Lady  Chillingly  should  make  a 
mesalliance,  however  crotchety  he  might  be  in  other  respects, 
was  a  thought  tliat  it  would  have  so  disturbed  her  to  admit, 
that  she  did  ncjt  admit  it. 

Such  was  the  condition  of  things  at  Exmundham  when 
the  lengthy  communication  of  Kenelm  reached  Sir  Peter's 
hands. 


t 


BOOK  VIII. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Never  in  his  whole  life  had  the  mind  of  Sir  Peter  been 
so  agitated  as  it  was  during,  and  after,  the  perusal  of  Ken- 
elm's  flighty  composition.  He  had  received  it  at  the  break- 
fast-table, and,  opening  it  eagerly,  ran  his  eye  hastily  over 
the  contents,  till  he  very  soon  arrived  at  sentences  which 
appalled  him.  Lady  Chillingly,  who  was  fortunately  busied 
at  the  tea-urn,  did  not  observe  the  dismay  on  his  counte- 
nance. It  was  visible  only  to  Cecilia  and  to  Gordon. 
Neither  guessed  whom  that  letter  was  from. 

"Not  bad  news,  I  hope  ?"  said  Cecilia,  softly. 

"Bad  news,"  echoed  Sir  Peter.  "  No,  my  dear,  no  ;  a 
letter  on  business.  It  seems  terribly  long,"  and  he  thrust 
the  packet  into  his  pocket,  muttering,  "  see  to  it  by-and-by." 

"That  slovenly  farmer  of  yours,  Mr.  Nostock,  has  failed, 
I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Travers,  looking  up  and  observing  a 
quiver  on  his  host's  lip.  "  I  told  you  he  would — a  fine  farm 
too.     Let  me  choose  you  another  tenant." 

Sir  Peter  shook  his  head  with  a  wan  smile. 

"  Nostock  will  not  fail  There  have  been  six  genera- 
tions of  Nostocks  on  the  farm." 

"So  I  should  guess,"  said  Travers,  dryly. 

"And — and,"  faltered  Sir  Peter,  "if  the  last  of  the  race 
fails,  he  must  lean  upon  me,  and — if  one  of  the  two  break 
down — it  shall  not  be " 

"  Shall  not  be  that  cross-cropping  blockhead,  my  dear  Sir 
Peter.     This  is  carrying  benevolence  too  far." 

Here  the  tact  and  savoir-vivre  oi  Chillingly  Gordon  came 
to  the  rescue  of  the  host.  Possessing  himself  of  the  Times 
newspaper,  he  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  genuine 
or  simulated,  and  read  aloud  an  extract  from  the  leading 
article,  announcing  an  impending  change  in  the  Cabinet. 

As  soon  as  he  could  quit  the  breakfast-table.  Sir  Peter 
hurried  into  his  library,  and  there  gave  himself  up  to  the  study 


414  'KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

of  Kcnclm's  unwelcome  communication.  Tlictask  took  him 
long,  for  he  stopped  at  intervals,  overcome  by  the  struggle 
of  his  heart,  now  melted  into  sympathy  with  the  passionate 
eloquence  of  a  son  hitherto  so  free  from  amorous  romance, 
and  now  sorrowing  for  the  ruin  of  his  own  cherished  hopes. 
This  uneducated  country  girl  would  never  be  such  a  help- 
mate to  a  man  like  Kenelm  as  would  have  been  Cecilia 
Travers.  At  length,  having  finished  the  letter,  he  buried 
his  head  between  his  clasped  hands,  and  tried  hard  to  realize 
the  situation  that  placed  the  father  and  son  into  such  direct 
antagonism. 

'"But,"  he  murmured,  "after  all  it  is  the  boy's  happiness 
that  must  be  consulted.  If  he  will  not  be  happy  in  my  way, 
what  right  have  I  to  say  that  he  shall  not  be  happy  in  his  ?" 

Just  then  Cecilia  came  softly  into  the  room.  She  had 
acquired  the  privilege  of  entering  his  library  at  will,  some- 
times to  choose  a  book  of  his  recommendation,  sometimes 
to  direct  and  seal  his  letters, — Sir  Peter  was  grateful  to  any 
one  who  saved  him  an  extra  trouble, — and  sometimes, 
especially  at  this  hour,  to  decoy  him  forth  into  his  wonted 
constitutional  walk. 

He  lifted  his  face  at  the  sound  of  her  approaching  tread 
and  her  winning  voice,  and  the  face  was  so  sad  that  the  tears 
rushed  to  her  eyes  on  seeing  it.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  and  said,  pleadingly,  "  Dear  Sir  Peter,  what  is  it 
— what  is  it?" 

"Ah — ah,  my  dear,"  said  Sir  Peter,  gathering  up  the 
scattered  sheets  of  Kenelm's  effusion  with  hurried,  trembling 
hands.  "  Don't  ask — don't  talk  of  it  ;  'tis  but  one  of  the 
disappointments  that  all  of  us  must  undergo,  when  we  in- 
vest our  hopes  in  the  luicertain  will  of  others." 

Then,  observing  that  the  toars  were  trickling  down  the 
girl's  fair,  pale  checks,  he  took  her  hand  in  both  his,  kissed 
her  forehead,  and  said,  whisperingly,  "  Pretty  one,  how  good 
you  have  been  to  me  !  Heaven  bless  you  !  What  a  wife 
you  will  be  to  some  man  I  " 

Thus  saying,  he  shambled  out  of  the  room  through  the 
open  casement.  She  followed  him  impulsively,  wondering- 
ly  ;  but  before  she  reached  his  side  he  turned  round,  waved 
his  hand  with  a  gently  repelling  gesture,  and  went  his  way 
alone  through  dense  fir  groves  which  had  been  planted  in 
honor  of  Kenelm's  birth. 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  415 


CHAPTER  II. 

Kenelm  arrived  at  Exmundham  just  in  time  to  dress  for 
dinner.  His  arrival  was  not  unexpected,  for  the  morning 
after  his  father  had  received  his  communication,  Sir  Peter 
had  said  to  Lady  Chillingly  '*  that  he  had  heard  from  Ken- 
elm  to  the  effect  that  he  might  be  down  any  day." 

"Quite  time  he  should  come,"  said  Lady  Chillingly. 
"  Have  you  his  letter  about  you  ? " 

"No,  my  dear  Caroline.  Of  course  he  sends  you  his 
kindest  love,  poor  fellow." 

"  Why  poor  fellow  ?     Has  he  been  ill  ?" 

"  No  ;  but  there  seems  to  be  something  on  his  mind.  If 
so,  we  must  do  what  we  can  to  relieve  it.  He  is  the  best  of 
sons,  Caroline." 

"  I  am  sure  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  him,  except," 
added  her  ladyship,  reflectively,  "  that  I  do  wish  he  were  a 
little  more  like  other  young  men." 

"Hum — like  Chillingly  Gordon,  for  instance  .'' " 

"  Well,  yes  ;  Mr.  Gordon  is  a  remarkably  well-bred,  sen- 
sible young  man.  How  different  from  that  disagreeable, 
bearish  father  of  his,  who  went  to  law  with  you  !  " 

"  Very  different  indeed,  but  with  just  as  much  of  the 
Chillingly  blood  in  him.  How  the  Chillinglys  ever  gave 
birth  to  a  Kenelm  is  a  question  much  more  puzzling." 

"Oh.  my  dear  Sir  Peter,  don't  be  metaphysical.  You 
know  how  I  hate  puzzles." 

"  And  yet,  Caroline,  I  have  to  thank  you  for  a  puzzle 
which  I  can  never  interpret  by  my  brain.  There  are  a  great 
many  puzzles  in  human  nature  which  can  only  be  interpret- 
ed by  the  heart." 

"Very  true,"  said  Lady  Chillingly.  "  I  suppose  Kenelm 
is  to  have  his  old  room,  just  opposite  to  Mr.  Gordon's." 

"Ay — ay,  just  opposite.  Opposite  they  will  be  all  their 
lives.     Only  think,  Caroline,  I  have  made  a  discovery." 

"  Dear  me,  I  hope  not.  Your  discoveries  are  generally 
very  expensive,  and  bring  us  in  contact  with  such  very  odd 
people." 

"This  discovery  shall  not  cost  us  a  penny,  and  I  don't 
know  any  people  so  odd  as  not  to  comprehend  it.     Briefly  it 


4i6  KEN  ELM   CIIILLINGLY. 

is  this  :  To  genius  the  first  requisite  is  licart ;  it  is  no  requi- 
site at  all  to  talent.  My  dear  Caroline,  Gordon  has  as  nuicli 
talent  as  any  young  man  I  kncnv,  but  he  wants  the  first 
requisite  of  genius.  I  am  not  by  any  means  sure  that  Ken- 
elm  has  genius,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  has  the  first 
requisite  of  genius — heart.  Heart  is  a  very  perplexing,  way- 
ward, irrational  thing ;  and  that  perhaps  accounts  for  the 
general  incapacity  to  comprehend  genius,  while  any  fool  can 
comprehend  talent.  My  dear  Caroline,  you  know  that  it  is 
very  seldom,  not  more  than  once  in  three  years,  that  I  pre- 
sume to  have  a  will  of  my  own  against  a  will  of  yours  ;  but 
should  there  come  a  question  in  which  our  son's  heart  is 
concerned,  then  (speaking  between  ourselves)  my  will  must 
govern  yours." 

"  Sir  Peter  is  growing  more  odd  every  day,"  said  Lady 
Chillingly  to  herself  when  left  alone.  "  But  he  does  not 
mean  ill,  and  there  are  worse  husbands  in  the  world." 

Therewith  she  rang  for  her  maid,  gave  requisite  orders 
for  the  preparing  of  Kenclm's  room,  which  had  not  been 
slept  in  for  many  months,  and  then  consulted  that  function- 
ary as  to  the  adaptation  of  some  dress  of  hers,  too  costly  to  be 
hiid  aside,  to  the  style  of  some  dress  less  costly  which  Lady 
Glenalvon  had  imported  from  Paris  as  la  dcniicrc  mode. 

On  the  very  day  on  which  Kenelm  arrived  at  Exmund- 
ham.  Chillingly  Gordon  had  received  this  letter  from  Mr. 
Gerard  Danvers  : 

"  Dear  Gordon, — In  tlie  ministerial  changes  announced  as  rumor  in  the 
public  papers,  and  wliich  you  may  accept  as  certain,  that  sweet  little  cherub 
*  *  *  is  to  be  sent  to  sit  up  aloft  and  pray  there  for  the  life  of  poor  Jack- 
viz.,  of  the  f^overnmcnt  he  leaves  below.      In  accejiting  tiie  peerage,  which  I 

persuadetl  him  to  do,    *   *   *  creates  a  vacancy  for  the  borough  of  , 

just  the  place   for   you,  far  better    in  every  way   than  Saxborough.   *  *  * 
promises  to  recommend  you  to  his  committee.     Come  to  town  at  once. 

"  Yours,  etc., 

"  G.  Danvers." 

Gordon  showed  this  letter  to  Mr.  Travers,  and,  on  receiv- 
ing the  hearty  good  wishes  of  that  gentleman,  said,  with 
emotion  partly  genuine  partly  assiuned,  "  You  cannot  guess 
all  that  the  realization  of  your  good  wishes  would  be.  Once 
in  the  II(juse  of  Commons,  and  my  motives  for  action  are  so 
strong  that — do  not  think  me  very  conceited  if  I  count 
upon  Parliamentary  success." 

"  My  dear  Gordon,  I  am  as  certain  of  your  success  as  I 
am  of  mv  own  existence." 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  4T7 

"  Should  I  succeed — should  the  great  prizes  of  public 
life  be  within  my  reach — should  I  lift  myself  into  a  position 
that  would  warrant  my  presumption,  do  you  think  I  could 
come  to  you  and  say,  'There  is  an  object  of  ambition  dearer 
tu  me  than  power  and  office — the  hope  of  attaining  which 
was  the  strongest  of  all,  my  motives  of  action  ? '  And  in 
that  hope  shall  I  also  have  the  good  wishes  of  the  father  of 
Cecilia  Travers  ? " 

"  My  dear  fellow^  give  me  your  hand  ;  you  speak  man- 
fully and  candidly,  as  a  gentleman  should  speak.  I  answer 
in  the  same  spirit.  I  don't  pretend  to  say  that  I  have  not 
entertained  views  for  Cecilia  which  included  hereditary  rank 
and  established  fortune  in  a  suitor  to  her  hand,  though  I 
never  should  have  made  them  imperative  conditions.  I  am 
neither  potentate  nor  parvenu  enough  for  that  ;  and  I  can 
never  forget"  (here  every  muscle  in  the  man's  face  twitched) 
"  that  I  myself  married  for  love,  and  was  so  happy.  How 
happy  Heaven  only  knows  !  Still,  if  you  had  thus  spoken 
a  few  weeks  ago,  I  should  not  have  replied  very  favorably 
to  your  question.  But  now  that  I  have  seen  so  much  of 
you,  my  answer  is  this  :  If  you  lose  your  election  — if  you 
don't  come  into  Parliament  at  all,  you  have  my  good  wishes 
all  the  same.  If  you  win  my  daughter's  heart,  there  is  no 
man  on  whom  I  would  more  willingly  bestow  her  hand. 
There  she  is,  by  herself  too,  in  the  garden.  Go  and  talk  to 
her." 

Gordon  hesitated.  He  knew  too  well  that  he  had  not 
won  her  heart,  though  he  had  no  suspicion  that  it  w^as  given 
to  another.  And  he  was  much  too  clever  not  to  know  also 
how  much  he  hazards  who,  in  affairs  of  courtship,  is  pre- 
mature. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "I  cannot  express  my  gratitude  for 
words  so  generous,  encouragement  so  cheering.  But  I  have 
never  yet  dared  to  utter  to  Miss  Travers  a  w^ord  that  would 
prepare  her  even  to  harbor  a  thought  of  me  as  a  suitor. 
And  I  scarcely  think  I  should  have  the  courage  to  go 
through  this  election  with  the  grief  of  her  rejection  on  my 
heart." 

"  Well,  go  in  and  win  the  election  first  ;  meanwhile,  at 
all  events,  take  leave  of  Cecilia." 

Gordon  left  his  friend,  and  joined  Miss  Travers,  resolved 
not  indeed  to  risk  a  formal  declaration,  but  to  sound  his 
way  to  his  chances  of  acceptance. 

The   interview  was  very  brief.     He  did  sound  his  way 


4iS  KEN  ELM   CII/LLLXGLV. 

skilfully,  and  felt  it  very  unsafe  for  his  footsteps.  The  ad- 
vantage of  having  gained  the  approval  of  the  father  was 
too  great  to  be  lost  altogether  by  one  of  those  decided 
answers  on  the  part  of  the  daughter  which  allow  of  no  ap- 
peal, especiallv  to  a  poor  gentleman  who  wooes  an  heiress. 

He  returned  to  Travers,  and  said,  simply,  "  I  bear  with 
me  her  good  wishes  as  well  as  yours.  That  is  all.  I  leave 
myself  in  )'our  kind  hands." 

Then  he  hurried  away  to  take  leave  of  his  host  and  hos- 
tess, say  a  few  significant  words  to  the  allv  he  had  already 
gained  in  Mrs.  Campion,  and  within  an  hour  was  on  his 
road  to  London,  passing  on  his  way  the  train  that  bore  Ken- 
elm  to  Exmundham.  Gordon  was  in  high  spirits.  At  least 
he  felt  as  certain  of  winning  Cecilia  as  he  did  of  winning  his 
election. 

"I  have  never  yet  failed  in  what  I  desired,"  said  he  to 
himself,  "  because  I  have  ever  taken  pains  not  to  fail." 

The  cause  of  Gordon's  sudden  departure  created  a  great 
excitement  in  that  quiet  circle,  shared  by  all  except  Cecilia 
and  Sir  Peter. 


CHAPTER  HI. 


Kexelm  did  not  see  either  father  or  mother  till  he  ap- 
peared at  dinner.  Then  he  was  seated  next  to  Cecilia. 
There  was  but  little  conversation  between  the  two  ;  in  fact, 
the  prevalent  subject  of  talk  was  general  and  engrossing, 
the  interest  in  Chillingly  Gordon's  election  ;  predictions  of 
his  success,  of  what  he  would  do  in  Parliament  ;  "where," 
said  Lady  Glenalvon,  "  there  is  such  a  dearth  of  rising 
young  men,  that  if  he  were  only  half  as  clever  as  he  is  he 
would  be  a  gain." 

"A  gain  to  what?"  asked  Sir  Peter,  testily.  "To  his 
country  ?  about  which  I  don't  believe  he  cares  a  brass 
button." 

To  this  assertion  Leopold  Travers  replied  w^armly,  and 
was  not  less  warmly  backed  by  Mrs.  Campion. 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Lady  Glenalvon,  in  conciliatory 
accents,  "  I  think  every  able  man  in  Parliament  is  a  gain  to 
the  country;  and  he  may  not  serve  his  country  less  effec- 
tively because  he  docs  not  boast  of  his  love  for  it.     The 


KEl^ELM   CHILLINGLY.  419 

politicians  I  dread  most  are  those  so  rampant  in  France 
nowadays,  the  bawling  patriots.  When  Sir  Robert  Walpole 
said,  'AH  those  men  have  their  price,'  he  pointed  to  the 
men  who  called  themselves  'patriots.'" 

"  Bravo  !  "  cried  Travers. 

"  Sir  Robert  Walpole  showed  his  love  for  his  country  by 
corrupting  it.  There  are  many  ways  besides  bribing  for 
corrupting  a  country,"  said  Kenelm,  mildly  ;  and  that  was 
Kenelm's  sole  contribution  to  the  general  conversation. 

It  was  not  till  the  rest  of  the  party  had  retired  to  rest, 
that  the  conference,  longed  for  by  Kenelm,  dreaded  by  Sir 
Peter,  took  place  in  the  library.  It  lasted  deep  into  the 
night  ;  both  parted  with  lightened  hearts  and  a  fonderaffec- 
tion  for  each  other.  Kenelm  had  drawn  so  charming  a  pict- 
ure of  the  Fairy,  and  so  thoroughly  convinced  Sir  Peter  that 
his  own  feelings  tow^ards  her  were  those  of  no  passing  youth- 
ful fancy,  but  of  that  love  which  has  its  roots  in  the  innermost 
heart,  that  though  it  was  still  with  a  sigh,  a  deep  sigh,  that 
he  dismissed  the  thought  of  Cecilia,  Sir  Peter  did  dismiss 
it  ;  and,  taking  comfort  at  last  from  the  positive  assurance 
tliat  Lily  was  of  gentle  birth,  and  the  fact  that  her  name  of 
Mordaunt  was  that  of  ancient  and  illustrious  houses,  said, 
with  half  a  smile,  "  It  might  have  been  worse,  my  dear  bov. 
I  began  to  be  afraid  that,  in  spite  of  the  teachings  of  Mi  vers 
and  Welby,  it  was  'The  Miller's  Daughter,'  after  all.  But 
we  still  have  a  difficult  task  to  persuade  your  poor  mother. 
In  covering  your  first  flight  from  our  roof  I  unluckily  put 
into  her  head  the  notion  of  Lady  Jane,  a  duke's  daughter, 
and  the  notion  has  never  got  out  of  it.  That  comes  of  fib- 
bing." 

"  I  count  on  Lady  Glenalvon's  influence  on  my  mother 
in  support  of  your  own,"  said  Kenelm.  "  If  so  accepted  an 
oracle  in  the  great  world  pronounce  in  my  favor,  and  prom- 
ise to  present  my  wife  at  Court  and  bring  her  into  fashion, 
I  think  that  my  mother  will  consent  to  allow  us  to  reset  the 
old  family  diamonds  for  her  next  re-appearance  in  London. 
And  then,  too,  you  can  tell  her  that  I  will  stand  for  the 
county.  I  will  go  into  Parliament,  and  if  I  meet  there  our 
clever  cousin,  and  find  that  he  does  not  care  a  brass  button 
for  the  country,  take  my  word  for  it,  I  will  lick  him  more 
easily  than  I  licked  Tom  Bowles." 

"  Tom  Bowles  !  Who  is  he  ? — ah !  I  remember  some  let- 
ter of  yours  in  which  you  spoke  of  a  Bowles,  whose  favorite 
study  was  mankind,  a  moral  philosopher." 


420  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

"  Moral  philosophers,"  answered  Kenelm,  *'have  so  mud- 
dled their  brains  with  the  alcohol  of  new  ideas  that  their 
moral  legs  have  become  shaky,  and  the  humane  would  rather 
help  them  to  bed  tlian  give  them  a  licking.  My  Tom  Bow- 
les is  a  muscular  Christian,  wlio  became  no  less  muscular, 
but  much  more  Christian,  after  he  was  licked." 

And  in  this  pleasant  manner  these  two  oddities  settled 
their  conference,  and  went  up  to  bed  with  arms  wrapt  round 
each  other's  shoulder. 


CHAPTER   IV. 


Kenelm  found  it  a  much  harder  matter  to  win  Lady  Glen- 
alvon  to  his  side  than  he  had  anticipated.  With  tlie  strong 
interest  she  had  taken  in  Kenelm's  future,  she  could  not  but 
revolt  from  the  idea  ot  his  union  with  an  obscure  portionless 
girl  whom  he  iiad  only  known  a  few  weeks,  and  of  whose 
very  parentage  he  seemed  to  know  nothing,  save  an  assur- 
ance that  she  was  his  equal  in  birth.  And,  with  the  desire, 
which  slie  had  cherished  almost  as  fondly  as  Sir  Peter,  that 
Kenelm  might  win  a  bride  in  every  way  so  worthy  of  his 
choice  as  Cecilia  Travers,  she  felt  not  less  indignant  than 
regretful  at  the  overthn)W  of  her  plans. 

At  first,  indeed,  she  was  so  provoked  that  she  would  not 
listen  to  his  pleadings.  She  broke  away  from  him  with  a 
rudeness  she  had  never  exhibited  to  any  one  before,  refused 
to  grant  him  another  interview  in  order  to  re-discuss  the 
matter,  and  said  that,  so  far  from  using  her  influence  in 
favor  of  ills  romantic  folly,  she  would  remonstrate  well  with 
Lady  Chillingly  and  Sir  Peter  against  yielding  their  assent 
to  his  "thus  throwing  himself  away." 

It  was  not  till  the  third  day  after  his  arrival  that,  touched 
by  the  grave  but  haughty  mournfulness  of  his  countenance, 
she  yielded  to  the  arguments  of  Sir  Peter  in  the  course  of  a 
private  conversation  with  that  worthy  baronet.  Still  it  was 
reluctantly  (she  did  not  fulfil  her  threat  of  remonstrance 
with  Lady  Chillingly)  that  she  conceded  the  point,  that  a 
son  who,  succeeding  to  the  absolute  fee-simple  of  an  estate, 
had  volunteered  the  resettlement  of  it  on  terms  singularly 
generous  to  both  his  parents,  was  entitled  to  some  sacrifice 
of  their  inclinations  on  a  question  in  which  he  deemed  his 


KE.VELM  CHILLINGLY.  421 

happiness  vitally  concerned  ;  and  that  he  was  of  age  to 
choose  for  himself,  independently  of  their  consent,  but  for  a 
previous  promise  extracted  from  him  by  his  father,  a  prom- 
ise which,  rigidly  construed,  was  not  extended  to  Lady 
Chillingly,  but  confined  to  Sir  Peter  as  the  head  of  the  fam- 
ily and  master  of  the  household.  The  father's  consent  was 
already  given,  and,  if  in  his  reverence  for  b(jth  parents  Ken- 
elm  could  not  dispense  with  his  mother's  approval,  surely 
it  was  the  part  of  a  true  friend  to  remove  every  scruple  from 
his  conscience,  and  smooth  away  every  obstacle  to  a  love 
not  to  be  condemned  because  it  was  disinterested. 

After  this  conversation  Lady  Glenalvon  sought  Kenelm, 
found  him  gloomily  musing  on  the  banks  of  the  trout  stream, 
took  his  arm,  led  him  into  the  sombre  glades  of  the  fir  grove, 
and  listened  patiently  to  all  he  had  to  say.  Even  then  her 
woman's  heart  was  not  won  to  his  reasonings,  until  he  said, 
pathetically,  "  You  thanked  me  once  for  saving  your  son's 
life  ;  you  said  then  that  you  could  never  repay  me  ;  you  can 
repay  me  tenfold.  Could  your  son,  who  is  now,  we  trust,  in 
heaven,  look  down  and  judge  between  us,  do  you  think  he 
would  approve  you  if  you  refuse  ?  " 

Then  Lady  Glenalvon  wept,  and  took  his  hand,  kissed 
his  forehead  as  a  mother  might  kiss  it,  and  said,  "  You 
triumph,  I  will  go  to  Lady  Chillingly  at  once.  Marry  her 
whom  you  so  love,  on  one  condition  :  marry  her  from  my 
house." 

Lady  Glenalvon  was  not  one  of  those  women  who  serve 
a  friend  by  halves.  She  knew  well  how  to  propitiate  and 
reason  down  the  apathetic  temperament  of  Lady  Chillingly  ; 
she  did  not  cease  till  that  lady  herself  came  into  Kenelm's 
room,  and  said,  very  quietly  : 

"So  you  are  going  to  propose  to  Miss  Mordaunt  ?— the 
\Yarwickshire  Mordaunts,  I  suppose.  Lady  Glenalvon  says 
she  is  a  very  lovely  girl,  and  will  stay  with  her  before  the  wed- 
ding. And,  as  the  young  lady  is  an  orphan,  Lady  Glenalvon's 
uncle  the  Duke,  who  is  connected  with  the  eldest  branch  of 
the  Mordaunts,  will  give  her  away.  It  will  be  a  very  bril- 
liant affair.  I  am  sure  I  wish  you  happy  :  it  is  time  you 
should  have  sown  your  wild  oats." 

Two  days  after  the  consent  thus  formally  given,  Kenelm 
quitted  Exmundham.  Sir  Peter  would  have  accompanied 
him  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  intended,  but  the  agitation 
he  had  gone  through  brought  on  a  sharp  twinge  of  the  gout, 
which  consigned  his  feet  to  flannels. 


422  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

After  Kenelm  had  gone,  Lady  Glenalvon  went  into  Ceci- 
lia's room.  Cecilia  was  seated  very  desolately  by  the  open 
window  ;  she  had  detected  tliat  something  of  an  anxious 
and  painful  nature  had  been  weighing  upon  the  minds  of 
father  and  son,  and  had  connected  it  with  the  letter  which 
liad  so  disturbed  the  even  mind  of  Sir  Peter  ;  but  she  did 
not  divine  what  the  something  was,  and  if  mortified  by  a 
certain  reserve,  more  distant  than  heretofore,  which  had 
characterized  Kenelm's  manner  towards  herself,  the  morti- 
fication was  less  sensibly  felt  than  a  tender  sympathy  fur  the 
sadness  she  had  observed  on  his  face,  and  yearned  to  soothe. 
His  reserve  had,  however,  made  her  own  manner  more 
reserved  than  of  old,  for  which  she  was  now  rather  chiding 
herself  than  reproaching  him. 

Lady  Glenalvon  put  her  arms  round  Cecilia's  neck  and 
kissed  her,  whispering,  "  That  man  has  so  disappointed  me  ! 
he  is  so  unworthy  of  the  happiness  I  had  once  hoped  for 
him!" 

"Whom  do  you  speak  of?"  murmured  Cecilia,  turning 
very  pale. 

"Kenelm  Chillingly.  It  seems  that  he  has  conceived  a 
fancy  for  some  penniless  girl  whom  he  has  met  in  his  wan- 
derings, has  come  here  to  get  the  consent  of  his  parents  to 
propose  to  her,  has  obtained  their  consent,  and  is  gone  to 
propose." 

Cecilia  remained  silent  for  a  moment  with  her  eyes  clos- 
ed, tlien  she  said,  "  He  is  worthy  of  all  happiness,  and  he 
would  never  make  an  unworthy  choice.     Heaven  bless  him 

— and— rand "     She  would  have  added  "  His  bride,"  but 

her  lips  refused  to  utter  the  word  bride. 

"  Cousin  Gordon  is  worth  ten  of  him,"  cried  Lady  Glen- 
alvon, indignantly. 

She  had  served  Kenelm,  but  she  had  not  forgiven  him. 


CHAPTER  V. 


Kenelm  slept  in  London  that  night,  and,  the  next  day. 
being  singularly  fine  for  an  English  summer,  he  resolved  to 
go  to  Moleswich  on  foot.  lie  had  no  need  this  time  to 
encumber  himself  with  a  knapsack  ;  he  had  left  sufficient 
change  of  dress  in  his  lodgings  at  Cromwell  Lodge. 


kexelaI  chillingly.  423 

It  was  towards  the  evening  when  he  found  himself  in  one 
of  the  prettiest  rural  villages  by  which 

"  Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 
His  silver- winding  way." 

It  w\as  not  in  the  direct  road  from  London  to  Moleswich, 
but  it  was  a  pleasanter  way  for  a  pedestrian.  And  when, 
quitting  the  long  street  of  the  sultry  village,  he  came  to  the 
slielving  margin  of  the  river,  he  was  glad  to  rest  awhile, 
enjoy  the  cool  of  the  rippling  waters,  and  listen  to  their 
placid  murnuirs  amid  the  rushes  in  the  bordering  shallows. 
He  had  ample  time  before  him.  His  rambles  while  at 
Cromwell  Lodge  had  made  him  familiar  with  the  district  for 
miles  round  Moleswich,  and  he  knew  that  a  footpath  through 
the  fields  at  the  right  would  lead  him,  in  less  than  an  hour, 
to  the  side  of  the  tributary  brook  on  which  Cromwell  Lodge 
was  placed,  opposite  the  wooden  bridge  which  conducted  to 
Grasmere  and  Moleswich. 

To  one  who  loves  the  romance  of  history,  English  history, 
the  whole  course  of  the  Thames  is  full  of  charm.  Ah  ! 
could  I  go  back  to  tlie  days  in  w^iich  younger  generations 
than  that  of  Kenelm  Chillingly  were  unborn,  when  every 
wave  of  the  Rhine  spoke  of  history  and  romance  to  me,  Avhat 
fairies  should  meet  on  thy  banks,  O  thou,  our  own  Father 
Thames  !  Perhaps  some  day  a  German  pilgrim  may  repay 
tenfold  to  thee  the  tribute  rendered  by  the  English  kinsman 
to  the  Father  Rhine. 

Listening  to  the  whispers  of  the  reeds,  Kenelm  Chillingly 
felt  the  haunting  influence  of  the  legendary  stream.  Many 
a  poetic  incident  or  tradition  in  antique  chronicle,  many  a 
votive  rhyme  in  song,  dear  to  forefathers  whose  very  names 
liave  become  a  poetry  to  us,  thronged  dimly  and  confusedly' 
back  to  his  memory,  which  had  little  cared  to  retain  such 
graceful  trinkets  in  the  treasure-house  of  love.  But  every- 
thing that,  from  childhood  upward,  connects  itself  with 
romance,  revives  with  yet  fresher  bloom  in  the  memories 
of  him  who  loves. 

And  to  this  man,  through  the  first  perilous  season  of 
youth  so  abnormally  safe  from  youth's  most  wonted  peril, — ■ 
to  this  would-be  pupil  of  realism,  this  learned  adept  in  the 
schools  of  a  Welby  or  a  Mivers,  —  to  this  man,  Love  came  at 
last  as  with  the  fatal  powers  of  the  fabled  Cyiherea,  and  with 
that  love  all  the  realisms  of  life  became  ideals,  all  the  stern 


424  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

lines  of  our  commonplace  destinies  undulating  into  curves 
of  beauty,  all  the  trite  sounds  of  our  every-day  life  attuned 
into  delicacies  of  song.  How  full  of  sanguine  yet  dreamy 
bliss  was  his  heart, — and  seemed  his  future,  —  in  the  gentle 
breeze  and  the  softened  glovv  of  that  summer  eve  !  He  should 
see  Lily  the  next  morn,  and  his  lips  were  now  free  to  say  all 
that  they  had  as  yet  suppressed. 

Suddenly  he  was  roused  from  the  half-awake  half-asleep 
happiness  that  belongs  to  the  moments  in  which  wc  trans- 
port ourselves  into  l'21ysium,  by  the  carol  of  a  voice  more 
loudly  joyous  than  that  of  his  own  heart: 

"  Singing— singing, 
Lustily  ringing, 

Down  the  voaci,  with  his  dogs  before, 
Came  the  Ritter  of  Neirestein." 

Kenelm  turned  his  head  so  quickly  that  he  frightened 
Max,  who  had  for  the  last  minute  been  standing  behind  iiim 
inquisitively  with  one  paw  raised,  and  sniffing,  in  some  doubt 
whether  he  recognized  an  old  acquaintance  ;  but  at  Ken- 
elm's  (juick  movement  the  animal  broke  into  a  nervous  bark, 
and  ran  back  to  his  master. 

The  Minstrel,  little  heeding  the  figure  reclined  on  the 
bank,  would  have  passed  on  with  his  light  tread  and  his 
cheery  carol,  but  Kene'fm  rose  to  his  feet,  and  holding  out 
his  hand,  said,  "  I  hope  you  don't  share  Max's  alarm  at 
meeting  me  again  ?  " 

"Ah,  my  young  philosopher,  is  it  indeed  you  ?" 

"  If  I  am  to  be  designated  a  philosopher,  it  is  certainly 
not  I.  And,  honestly  speaking,  I  am  not  the  same.  I,  who 
spent  that  pleasant  day  with  you  among  the  fields  round 
Luscombe  two  years  ago " 

"  Or  who  advised  me  at  Tor  Hadham  to  string  my  lyre 
to  the  praise  of  a  beefsteak.  I  too  am  not  (juite  the  same, 
I  whose  dog  presented  you  with  the  begging-tray." 

"Yet  you  still  go  through  the  world  singing." 

"Even  that  vagrant  singing-time  is  pretty  well  over. 
But  I  disturbed  you  from  your  repose.  I  would  rather 
share  it  ;  you  arc  probably  not  going  my  way,  and,  as  I  am 
in  no  hurry,  I  should  not  like  to  lose  the  opportunity  chance 
has  so  happily  given  me  of  renewing  acquaintance  with  one 
who  has  often  been  present  in  rny  thoughts  since  we  last 
met."  Thus  saying,  the  INlinstrel  stretched  himself  at  ease 
on  the  bank,  and  Kcnclm  followed  his  example. 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  425 

There  certainly  was  a  change  in  the  owner  of  the  dog 
with  the  begging-tray,  a  change  in  costume,  in  countenance, 
in  that  indescribable  self-evidence  which  we  call  "  manner." 
The  costume  w^as  not  that  Bohemian  attire  in  which  Kenelm 
had  first  encountered  the  Wandering  Minstrel,  nor  the 
studied,  more  graceful  garb  which  so  well  became  his  shape- 
ly form  during  his  visit  to  Luscombe.  It  was  now  neatly 
simple,  the  cool  and  quiet  summer  dress  any  English  gentle- 
inan  might  adopt  in  a  long  rural  walk.  And  as  he  uncov- 
ered his  head  to  court  the  cooling  breeze,  there  was  a 
graver  dignity  in  the  man's  handsome  Rubens-like  face,  a 
line  of  more  concentrated  thought  in  the  spacious  forehead, 
a  thread  or  two  of  gray  shimmering  here  and  there  through 
the  thick  auburn  curls  of  hair  and  beard.  And  in  his  man- 
ner, though  still  very  frank,  there  was  just  perceptible  a 
sort  of  self-assertion,  not  offensive,  but  manly  ;  such  as  does 
not  misbecome  one  of  maturer  years,  and  of  some  estab- 
lished position,  addressing  another  man  much  younger  than 
himself,  who  in  all  probability  has  achieved  no  position  at 
all  beyond  that  which  the  accident  of  birth  might  assign  to 
him. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Minstrel,  with  a  half-suppressed  sigh, 
'■'•  the  last  year  of  my  vagrant  holidays  has  come  to  its  close. 
I  recollect  that  the  first  day  we  met  by  the  roadside  foun- 
tain I  advised  you  to  do  like  me,  seek  amusement  and  ad- 
venture as  a  foot-traveller.  Now,  seeing  you,  evidently  a 
gentleman  by  education  and  birth,  still  a  foot-traveller,  I  feel 
as  if  I  ought  to  say,  '  You  have  had  enough  of  such  ex- 
perience ;  vagabond  life  has  its  perils  as  well  as  charms  ; 
cease  it  and  settle  down.'  " 

"  I  think  of  doing  so,"  replied  Kenelm,  laconically. 

"  In  a  profession  P^army — law — medicine  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Ah,  in  marriage  then.  Right  ;  give  me  your  hand  on 
that.  So  a  petticoat  indeed  has  at  last  found  its  charm  for 
you  in  the  actual  world  as  well  as  on  the  canvas  of  a  pic- 
ture ? " 

"I  conclude,"  said  Kenelm, — evading  any  direct  notice 
of  that  playful  taunt, — "  I  conclude  from  your  remark  that 
it  is  in  marriage  Vi??^  are  about  to  settle  down." 

"  Ay,  could  I  have  done  so  before  I  should  have  been 
saved  from  many  errors,  and  been  many  years  nearer  to  the 
gcral  which  dazzled  my  sight  through  the  haze  of  my  boyish 
dreams." 


426  KENELM  CIIILLLVGLY. 

"  What  is  tliat  goal— the  grave  ?  " 

"  The  grave  !     Tliat  which  aHows  of  no  grave — Fame." 

"I  see — despite  of  what  you  just  now  said — you  still 
mean  to  go  through  the  world  seeking  a  poet's  fame." 

"Alas!  I  resign  that  fancy,"  said  the  Minstrel,  with 
another  half  sigli.  "It  was  not  indeed  wholly,  but  in  great 
part,  the  hope  of  the  poet's  fame  that  made  me  a  truant  in 
the  way  to  that  which  destiny  and  such  few  gifts  as  nature 
conceded  to  me,  marked  out  for  my  proper  and  only  goal. 
But  what  a  strange,  delusive  Will-o'-the-\Visp  the  love  of 
verse-making  is  !  How  rarely  a  man  of  good  sense  deceives 
himself  as  to  other  things  for  which  he  is  fitted,  in  which  lie 
can  succeed  !  but  let  him  once  drink  into  liis  being  the 
charm  of  verse-making,  how  the  glamour  of  the  cliarni  be- 
witches his  understanding !  how  long  it  is  before  he  can 
believe  that  the  world  will  not  take  his  word  for  it  when  he 
cries  out  to  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  '  I  too  am  a  poet.'  And 
with  what  agonies,  as  if  at  the  wrench  of  soul  from  life,  he 
resigns  himself  at  last  to  the  conviction,  that  whether  he  or 
the  world  be  right,  it  comes  to  the  same  thing  !  Who  can 
plead  his  cause  before  a  court  that  will  not  give  him  a  hear- 


mg? 


It  was  with  an  emotion  so  passionately  strong,  and  so 
intensely  painful,  that  the  owner  of  the  dog  with  the  beg- 
ging-tray thus  spoke,  that  Kenelm  felt,  througli  sympathy,  as 
if  he  himself  were  torn  asunder  by  the  wrench  of  life  from 
soul.  But  then  Kenelm  was  a  mortal  so  eccentric  that,  if  a 
single  acute  suffering  endured  by  a  fellow-mortal  could  be 
brought  before  the  evidence  of  his  senses,  I  doubt  whether 
he  would  n<jt  have  suffered  as  nuich  as  that  fellow-mortal. 
So  that,  though  if  there  were  a  thing  in  the  world  which 
Kenelm  Chillingly  would  care  not  to  do,  it  was  verse-making, 
his  mind  involuntarily  hastened  to  the  arguments  by  which 
lie  could  best  mitigate  the  pang  of  the  verse-maker. 

Ouotli  he,  "According  to  my  very  scanty  reading,  yovi 
share  the  love  of  verse-making  with  men  the  most  illustrious 
in  careers  which  have  achieved  the  goal  of  fame.  It  must, 
then,  be  a  very  noble  love — Augustus,  Pollio,  Varius,  Maece- 
nas— the  greatest  statesmen  of  their  day  ;  they  were  verse- 
makers.  Cardinal  Richelieu  was  a  verse-maker  ;  Walter 
Raleigh  and  Philip  Sidney  ;  Fox,  Burke,  Sheridan,  Warren 
Hastings,  Canning — even  the  grave  William  Pitt  ;  all  were 
verse-makers.  Verse-making  did  not  retard — no  doubt  the 
qualities  essential  to  verse-making  accelerated — their  rucj 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  427 

to  the  goal  of  fame.  What  great  painters  have  been  verse- 
makers  !  Michael  Angelo,  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Salvator 
Rosa" — and  Heaven  knows  how  many  other  great  names 
Kenelm  Chillingly  might  have  proceeded  to  add  to  his  list, 
if  the  Minstrel  had  not  here  interposed. 

"  What !  all  those  mighty  painters  were  verse-makers  ?  " 

"  Verse-makers  so  good,  especially  Michael  Angelo — the 
greatest  painter  of  all — that  they  would  have  had  the  fame 
of  poets,  if,  unfortunately  for  that  goal  ©f  fame,  their  glory 
in  the  sister  art  of  painting  did  not  outshine  it.  But,  when 
you  give  to  your  gift  of  song  the  modest  title  of  verse-mak- 
ing, permit  me  to  observe  that  your  gift  is  perfectly  distinct 
from  that  of  the  verse-maker.  Your  gift,  whatever  it  may 
be,  could  not  exist  without  some  sympathy  with  the  non- 
verse-making  human  heart.  No  doubt,  in  your  foot-travels, 
you  have  acquired  not  only  observant  intimacy  with  external 
nature  in  the  shifting  hues  at  each  hour  of  a  distant  moun- 
tain, in  the  lengthening  shadows  which  yon  sunset  casts  on 
the  waters  at  our  feet,  in  the  habits  of  the  thrush  dropped 
fearlessly  close  beside  me,  in  that  turf  moistened  by  its 
neighborhood  to  those  dripping  rushes,  all  of  which  I  could 
describe  no  less  accurately  than  you — as  a  Peter  Bell  might 
describe  them  no  less  accurately  than  a  William  Words- 
worth. But  in  such  songs  of  yours  as  you  have  permitted 
me  to  hear,  you  seem  to  have  escaped  out  of  that  elemen- 
tary accidence  of  the  poet's  art,  and  to  touch,  no  matter 
how  slightly,  on  the  only  lasting  interest  which  the  univer- 
sal heart  of  man  can  have  in  the  song  of  the  poet,  viz.,  in 
the  sound  which  the  poet's  individual  sympathy  draws  forth, 
from  the  latent  chords  in  that  universal  heart.  As  for  what 
you  call  'the  world,'  what  is  it  more  than  the  fashion  of  the 
present  day  ?  How  far  the  judgment  of  that  is  worth  a 
poet's  pain  I  can't  pretend  to  say.  But  of  one  thing  I  am 
sure,  that  while  I  could  as  easily  square  the  circle  as  com- 
pose a  simple  couplet  addressed  to  the  heart  of  a  simple 
audience  with  sufficient  felicity  to  decoy  their  praises  into 
Max's  begging-trav,  I  could  spin  out  by  the  yard  the  sort 
of  verse-making  which  characterizes  the  fashion  of  the  pres- 
ent day." 

Much  flattered,  and  not  a  little  amused,  the  Wandering 
Minstrel  turned  his  bright  countenance,  no  longer  dimmed 
by  a  cloud,  towards  that  of  his  lazily  reclined  consoler,  and 
answered  gavly  : 

"  You  say  that  you  could  spin  out  by  the  yard  verses  in 


428  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

the  fashion  of  the  present  day.     I  wish  you  would  give  me  a 
specimen  of  your  skill  in  that  handiwork." 

"Very  well  ;  on  one  condition,  that  you  will  repay  my 
trouble  by  a  specimen  of  your  own  verses,  not  in  the  fashion 
of  tlie  present  day, — something  which  I  can  construe.  I 
defy  you  to  construe  mine."" 

"Agreed." 

"  Well,  then,  let  us  take  it  for  granted  tliat  this  is  the 
Augustan  age  of  English  poetry,  and  that  the  English  lan- 
guage is  dead,  like  the  Latin.  Suppose  I  am  writing  for  a 
prize  medal,  in  English,  as  I  wrote  at  college  for  a  prize 
medal,  in  Latin  ;  of  course  I  shall  be  successful  in  propor- 
tion as  I  introduce  the  verbal  elegances  peculiar  to  our  Au- 
gustan age,  and  also  catch  the  prevailing  poetic  character- 
istic of  that  classical  epoch. 

"Now,  I  think  that  every  observant  critic  "will  admit 
that  the  striking  distincticjns  of  the  poetry  most  in  the  fash- 
ion of  tlie  present  day,  viz.,  of  the  Augustan  age,  are — .first, 
a  selection  of  such  verbal  elegances  as  would  have  been 
most  repulsive  to  the  barbaric  taste  of  the  preceding  cen- 
tury, and,  secondly,  a  very  lofty  disdain  of  ail  prosaic  con- 
descensions to  common  sense,  and  an  elaborate  cultivation 
of  that  element  of  the  sublime  which  Mr.  Burke  defines 
under  the  head  of  obscurity. 

"  These  premises  conceded,  I  will  only  ask  you  to  choose 
the  metre.  Blank  verse  is  very  much  in  fashion  just 
now." 

"  Pooh, — blank  verse,  indeed  !  I  am  not  going  so  to  tree 
your  experiment  from  the  difficulties  of  rhyme." 

"  It  is  all  one  to  me,"  said  Kenelm,  yawning.  "  Rhyme 
be  it  :  Heroic,  or  lyrical?" 

"  Heroics  are  old-fashioned  ;  but  the  Chaucer  couplet, 
as  brought  to  perfection  by  our  modern  poets,  I  think  the 
best  adapted  to  dainty  leaves  and  uncrackable  nuts." 

"  I  accept  the  modern  Chaucerian." 

"The  subject?" 

"Oh,  never  trouble  yourself  about  that.  By  whatever 
title  your  Augustan  verse-maker  labels  his  poem,  his  genius, 
like  Pindar's,  disdains  to  be  cramped  by  the  subject.  Lis- 
ten, and  don't  suffer  Max  to  howl,  if  he  can  help  it.  Here 
goes." 

And  in  an  affected,  but  emphatic,  sing-song,  Kenelm 
began  : 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  429 

*'  In  Attica  the  gentle  Fythias  dwelt. 

Youthful  he  was,  and  passing  rich  :  he  felt 

As  if  nor  youth  nor  riches  could  suffice 

For  bliss.      Dark-eyed  Sophronia  was  a  nice 

Girl :  and  one  summer  day,  when  Neptune  drove 

His  sea-car  slowly,  and  the  olive  grove 

That  skirts  Jlissus,  to  thy  shell,  Harmonia, 

Rippled,  he  said  '  I  love  thee'  to  Sophronia. 

Crocus  and  iris,  when  they  heard  him,  wngg'd 

Their  pretty  heads  in  glee  :   the  honey-bagg'd 

Bees  became  altars  :  and  the  forest  dove 

Her  plumage  smoothed.     Such  is  the  charm  of  love. 

Of  this  sweet  story  do  ye  long  for  more? 

Wait  till  I  publish  it  in  volumes  four  ; 

Which  certain  ciitics,  my  good  friends,  will  cry 

Up  beyond  Chaucer.      Take  their  word  fur't.      I 

Say  '  Trust  them :   but  not  read,— or  you'll  not  buy.'  " 


U\Tr 


'You  have  certainly  kept  your  word,"  said  the  Minstrel, 
laughing.  "  And  if  this  be  the  Augustan  age,  and  tlie  Eng- 
lish were  a  dead  language,  you  deserve  to  win  the  prize 
medal." 

"  You  flatter  me,"  said  Kenelm,  modestly.  "But  if  I, 
who  never  before  strung  two  rhymes  together,  can  impro- 
vise so  readily  in  the  style  of  the  present  day,  why  should 
not  a  practical  rhymester  like  yourself  dash  off  at  a  sitting 
a  volume  or  so  in  the  same  style,  disguising  coiupletely  the 
verbal  elegances  borrowed,  adding  to  the  delicacies  of  the 
rhyme  by  the  frequent  introduction  of  a  line  that  will  not 
scan,  and  towering  yet  more  into  the  sublime  by  becoming 
yet  more  unintelligible  ?  Do  that,  and  I  promise  you  the 
most  glowing  panegyric  in  '  The  Londoner,'  for  I  will  write 
it  myself." 

'''The  Londoner'!"  exclaimed  the  Minstrel,  with  an 
angry  flush  on  his  cheek  and  brow.  "  My  bitter,  relentless 
enemy." 

"  i  fear,  then,  you  have  as  little  studied  the  critical  press 
of  the  Augustan  age  as  you  have  imbued  your  Muse  with 
the  classic'al  spirit  of  its  verse.  For  the  art  of  writing,  a 
man  must  cultivate  himself.  The  art  of  being  reviewed 
consists  in  cultivating  the  acquaintance  of  reviewers.  In 
the  Augustan  age  criticism  is  cliqiieism.  Belong  to  a 
clique,  and  you  are  Horace  or  TibuUus.  Belong  to  no 
clique,  and  of  coiu-se  you  are  Bavius  or  Maevius.  'The 
Londoner '  is  the  enemy  of  no  man---it  holds  all  men  in 
equal  contempt.  But  as,  in  order  to  amuse,  it  must  abuse, 
it  compensates  the  praise  it  is  compelled  to  bestow  upon 


430  KENELM    CHILLINGLY. 

the  members  of  its  clique  by  lieaping  additional  scorn  upon 
all  who  are  cli(jueless.      Hit  him  hard,  he  has  no  friends." 

"Ah,"  said  the  Minstrel,  "  1  believe  that  there  is  much 
truth  in  what  you  say.  I  never  had  a  friend  among  tlie 
cliques.  And  Heaven  knows  with  what  pertinacity  tliose 
from  whom  I,  in  utter  ignorance  of  the  rules  which  govern 
the  so-calied  organs  of  uj)inion,  had  hoped,  in  my  time  of 
struggle,  for  a  little  sympathy, — a  kindly  encouragement, — 
have  combined  to  crush  me  down.  1  hey  succeeded  long. 
But  at  last  I  venture  to  hope  that  I  am  beating  them.  Hap- 
pily, Nature  endowed  me  with  a  sanguine,  joyous,  elastic 
temperament.  He  who  never  despairs  seldom  completely 
falls." 

This  speech  rather  perplexed  Kenelm  ;  for  had  not  the 
Minstrel  declared  that  his  singing  days  were  over,  that  he 
had  decided  on  the  renunciation  of  verse-making  ?  What 
other  path  to  fame,  from  which  the  critics  had  not  been  able 
to  ejfclude  his  steps,  was  he,  then,  now  pursuing?  he  whom 
Kenelm  had  assumed  to  belong  to  some  commercial  money- 
making  firm.  No  doubt  some  less  difficult  prose-track  ; 
probably  a  novel.  Everybody  writes  novels  nowadays,  and 
as  the  public  will  read  novels  without  being  told  to  do  so, 
and  will  not  read  poetry  unless  they  are  told  that  they 
ought,  possibly  novels  are  not  quite  so  much  at  the  mercy 
of  cliques  as  are  the  poems  of  our  Augustan  age. 

However,  Kenelm  did  not  think  of  seeking  for  further 
confidence  on  that  score.  His  mind  at  that  moment,  not 
unnaturally,  wandered  from  books  and  critics  to  love  and 
wedlock. 

"  Our  talk,"  said  he,  "has  digressed  into  fretful  courses 
— permit  me  to  return  to  the  starting-point.  You  are  going 
to  settle  down  into  the  peace  of  home.  A  peaceful  home  is 
like  a  good  conscience.  The  rains  without  do  not  pierce  its 
roof,  the  winds  without  do  not  sliake  its  walls.  If  not  an 
impertinent  question,  is  it  long  since  you  have  known  your 
intended  bride  ?" 

"Yes,  very  long," 

"  And  always  loved  her  ?  " 

"Always,  from  her  infancy.  Out  of  all  womankind,  she 
was  designed  to  be  my  life's  playmate  and  my  soul's  purifier. 
I  know  not  what  might  have  become  of  me,  if  the  thought 
of  her  had  not  walked  beside  me,  as  my  guardian  angel. 
For,  like  many  vagrants  from  the  beaten  high-roads  of  the 
world,  there  is  in  my  nature  something  of  that  lawlessness 


KEMELM   CHILLINGLY.  431 

which  belongs  to  high  animal  spirits,  to  the  zest  of  adven- 
ture, and  tlie  warm  blood  which  runs  into  song,  chiefly  be- 
cause song  is  the  voice  of  a  joy.  And,  no  doubt,  when  I  look 
back  on  the  past  years  I  must  own  that  I  have  too  often 
b^^'en  led  astray  from  the  objects  set  before  my  reason,  and 
cherished  at  my  heart,  by  erring  impulse  or  wanton  fancy." 

"  Petticoat  interest,  I  presume,"  interposed  Kenelm, 
dryly. 

"  1  wish  I  could  lioncstly  answer  '  No,'  "  said  the  Minstrel, 
coloring  high.  "  But  from  the  worst,  from  all  that  would 
have  permanently  blasted  the  career  to  which  I  intrust  my 
fortunes,  all  that  would  have  rendered  me  unworthy  of  the 
pure  love  that  now,  I  trust,  awaits  and  crowns  my  dreams  of 
happiness,  I  have  been  saved  by  the  haunting  smile  in  a  sin- 
less infantine  face.  Only  once  was  I  in  great  peril  :  that 
hour  of  peril  I  recall  with  a  shudder.     It  was  at  Luscombe." 

"  At  Luscombe  !  " 

"  In  the  temptation  of  a  terrible  crime  I  thought  I  heard 
a  Voice  say,  'Mischief!  Remember  the  little  child.'  In 
that  supervention  which  is  so  readily  accepted  as  a  divine 
warning  when  the  imagination  is  morbidly  excited,  and 
when  the  conscience,  though  lulled  asleep  for  a  moment,  is 
still  asleep  so  lightly  that  the  sigh  of  a  breeze,  the  fall  of  a 
leaf,  can  awake  it  with  a  start  of  terror,  I  took  the  voice  for 
that  of  my  guardian  angel.  Thinking  over  it  later,  and 
coupling  the  voice  witli  the  moral  of  those  weird  lines  you^ 
repeated  to  me  so  appositely  the  next  day,  I  conclude  that  I 
am  not  mistaken  when  I  say  it  was  from  your  lips  that  the 
voice  which  preserved  me  came." 

"  I  confess  the  impertinence— you  pardon  it  !  " 

The  Minstrel  seized  Kenelm's  hand  and  pressed  it  earn- 
estly. 

"  Pardon  it !  Oh,  could  you  but  guess  what  cause  I  have 
to  be  grateful,  everlastingly  grateful  !  That  sudden  cry,  the 
remorse  and  horror  of  my  own  self  that  it  struck  into  me — 
deepened  by  those  rugged  lines  which  the  next  day  made 
me  shrink  in  dismay  from  'the  face  of  my  darling  sin'  ! 
Th:n  came  the  turning-point  of  my  life.  From  that  day, 
the  lawless  vagabond  within  me  was  killed.  I  mean  not, 
ind)3d,  the  love  of  nature  and  of  song  which  had  first  al- 
lured the  vagabond,  but  the  hatred  of  steadfast  habits  and 
of  serious  work — that  was  killed.  I  no  longer  trifled  with 
my  calling  ;  I  took  to  it  as  a  serious  duty.  And  when  I 
saw  li?r  whom   Fate  has  reserved  and  reared  for  my  bride, 


432  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

heii  face  was  no  longer  in  my  eyes  that  of  the  playful 
ciiild  ;  the  soul  of  the  woman  was  dawning  into  it.  It  is  but 
two  years  since  that  day,  lo  me  so  eventful.  Yet  my  fortunes 
are  now  secured.  And  if  fame  be  not  established,  I  am  at 
last  in  a  position  which  warrants  my  saying  to  her  I  love, 
*  The  time  has  come  when,  without  fear  for  thy  future,  I  can 
ask  thee  to  be  mine.'  " 

Tlie  man  spoke  with  so  fervent  a  passion  that  Kenelm 
silently  left  him  to  recover  his  wonted  self-possession, — not 
unwilling  to  be  silent, — not  unwilling,  in  the  softness  of  the 
hour,  passing  from  roseate  sunset  into  starry  twilight,  to 
murmur  to  himself,  "  And  the  time,  too,  has  come  for  me." 

After  a  few  moments  the  Minstrel  resumed  lightly  and 
cheerily  : 

"  Sir,  your  turn  :  pray,  have  you  long  known — judging 
by  our  former  conversation,  you  cannot  have  longed  loved — 
the  lady  whom  you  have  wooed  and  won  ?" 

As  Kenelm  had  neither  as  yet  wooed  nor  won  the  lady 
in  question,  and  did  not  deem  it  necessary  to  enter  into  any 
details  on  the  subject  of  love  particular  to  himself,  he  re- 
plied by  a  general  observation  : 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  the  coming  of  love  is  like  the  com- 
ing of  spring — the  date  is  not  to  be  reckoned  by  the  calen- 
dar. It  may  be  slow  and  gradual,  it  may  be  quick  and 
sudden.  But  in  the  morning,  when  we  wake  and  recognize 
a  change  in  tlie  world  without,  verdure  on  the  trees,  blos- 
soms on  the  sward,  warmth  in  the  sunshine,  music  in  the 
air,  then  we  say  Spring  has  come  !  " 

"  I  like  your  illustration.  And  if  it  be  an  idle  question 
to  ask  a  lover  how  long  he  has  known  the  beloved  one,  so 
it  is  almost  as  idle  to  ask  if  she  be  not  beautiful.  He  can- 
not but  see  in  her  face  the  beauty  she  has  given  to  the 
world  without." 

"  True  ;  and  that  thought  is  poetic  enough  to  make  me 
remind  you  that  I  favored  you  with  the  maiden  specimen 
of  my  verse-making  on  condition  that  you  repaid  me  by  a 
specimen  of  your  own  practical  skill  in  the  art.  And  I 
claim  the  right  to  suggest  the  theme.     Let  it  be " 

'•Of  a  beef-steak'?'" 

"  Tush  !  you  have  worn  out  that  tasteless  joke  at  my  ex- 
pense. The  theme  must  be  of  love,  and  if  you  could  im- 
provise a  stanza  or  two  expressive  of  the  idea  you  just  ut- 
tered I  shall  listen  with  yet  more  pleased  attention." 

"Alas  !  I  am  no  improvisatore.     Yet  I  will  avenge  my- 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  433 

self  on  your  former  neglect  of  my  craft  by  chanting  to  you 
a  trifle  somewhat  in  unison  with  the  thought  you  ask  me  to 
versify,  but  which  you  would  not  slay  to  hear  at  Tor  Had- 
ham  (though  you  did  drop  a  shilling  into  Max's  ti-ay)— it 
was  one  of  the  songs  I  sang  that  evening,  and  it  was  not  ill 
received  by  my  humble  audience. 

THE   BEAUTY   OF  THE   MISTRESS   IS    IN   THE    LOVER' S   EYE. 

"  Is  she  not  pretty,  my  Mabel  May? 
Nobody  ever  yet  called  her  so. 
Are  not  lier  lineaments  faultless,  say  ? 
If  I  must  answer  you  plainly — No. 

"  Joy  to  l^lieve  that  the  maid  I  love 

None  but  myself  as  she  is  can  see  ; 
Joy  that  she  steals  from  her  heaven  above 
And  is  only  revealed  on  this  earth  to  me  ! " 

As  soon  as  he  had  finished  this  veiy  artless  ditty,  the 
Minstrel  rose  and  said  : 

"  Now  1  must  bid  you  good-bye.  My  way  lies  through 
those  meadows,  and  yours,  no  doubt,  along  the  high-road." 

"  Not  so.  Permit  me  to  accompany  you.  I  have  a  lodg- 
ing not  far  from  hence,  to  which  the  path  through  the  fields 
is  the  shortest  way." 

The  Minstrel  turned  a  somewhat  surprised  and  some- 
what inquisitive  looI<  towards  Kenelin.  But  feeling,  per- 
haps, that  having  withheld  from  his  fellow-traveller  all  con- 
fidence as  to  his  own  name  and  attributes,  he  had  no  right 
to  ask  any  confidence  from  that  gentleman  not  voluntarily 
made  to  him,  he  courteously  said  that  he  wished  the  way 
were  longer,  since  it  would  be  so  pleasantly  halved,  and 
strode  forth  at  a  brisk  pace. 

The  twilight  was  now  closing  into  the  brightness  of  a 
starry  summer  night,  and  the  solitude  of  the  fields  was  un- 
broken. Both  these  men,  walking  side  by  side,  felt  su- 
premely happy.  But  happiness  is  like  wine  ;  its  effect  dif- 
feringwith  the  differing  temperaments  on  which  it  acts.  In 
this  case  garrulous  and  somewhat  vaunting  with  the  one 
man,  warm-colored,  sensuous,  impressionable  to  the  in- 
fluences of  external  nature,  as  an  ^olian  harp  to  the  rise 
or  fall  of  a  passing  wind  ;  and,  with  the  other  man,  taciturn 
and  somewhat  modestly  expressed,  saturnine,  meditative, 
not  indeed  dull  to  the  influences  of  external  nature,  but  deeni- 
iq 


434  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

ing  them  of  no  value  save  where  they  passed  out  of  the  do- 
main of  the  sensuous  into  tliat  of  the  intellectual,  and  tlie 
S(^ul  of  man  dictated  to  the  soulless  nature  its  own  ques- 
tions and  its  own  replies. 

The  Minstrel  took  the  talk  on  himself,  and  the  talk 
charmed  his  listener.  It  became  so  readily  eloquent  in  the 
tones  of  its  utterance,  in  the  frank  play  of  its  delivery,  that 
I  could  no  more  adequately  describe  it  than  a  reporter, 
however  faithful  to  every  word  a  true  orator  may  say,  can 
describe  that  which,  apart  from  all  words,  belongs  to  the 
presence  of  the  orator  himself. 

Not,  then,  venturing  to  report  the  language  of  this  sin- 
gular itinerant,  I  content  myself  with  saying  that  the  sub- 
stance of  it  was  of  the  nature  on  which  it  is  said  most  men 
can  be  eloquent  :  it  was  personal  to  himself.  He  spoke  of 
aspirations  towards  the  achievement  of  a  name,  dating 
back  to  the  dawn  of  memory  ;  of  early  obstacles  in  lowly 
birth,  stinted  fortunes  ;  of  a  sudden  opening  to  hisambi:ion, 
while  yet  in  boyhood,  through  the  generous  favor  of  a  rich 
man,  who  said,  "The  child  has  genius,  I  will  give  it  the  dis- 
cipline of  culture,  one  day  it  shall  repay  to  the  world  wliat  it 
owes  to  me  ;"  of  studies  passionately  begun,  earnestly  pur- 
sued, and  mournfully  suspended  in  early  youth.  He  did 
not  say  how  or  wherefore  :  he  rushed  on  to  dwell  upon  the 
struggles  for  a  livelihood  for  himself  and  those  dependent  on 
him  ;  how  in  such  struggles  he  was  compelled  to  divert  toil 
and  energy  from  the  systematic  pursuit  of  the  object  he  had 
once  set  before  him  ;  the  necessities  for  money  were  too 
lu-gent  to  be  postponed  to  the  visions  of  fame.  "  But  even," 
he  exclaimed,  passionately,  "even  in  such  hasty  and  crude 
manifestations  of  what  is  within  me,  as  circumstances  lim- 
ited my  powers,  I  know  that  I  ought  to  have  foimd  from 
those  who  profess  to  be  authoritative  judges  the  encourage- 
ment of  praise.  How  mucli  better,  then,  I  should  have 
done  if  I  had  found  it!  How  a  little  praise  warms  out  of  a 
man  the  good  tliat  is  in  him,  and  the  sneer  of  a  contempt 
which  he  feels  to  be  unjust  chills  the  ardor  to  excel !  How- 
ever, I  forced  my  way,  so  far  as  was  then  most  essential  to 
me,  the  sufficing  bread-maker  for  those  I  loved  ;  and  in  my 
holidays  of  song  and  ramble  I  found  a  delight  that  atoned 
for  all  the  rest.  But  still  the  desire  of  fame,  once  conceived 
in  childhood,  once  nourislied  through  youth,  never  dies  but 
in  our  grave.  Foot  and  hoof  may  tread  it  down,  bud,  leaf, 
stalk  ;  its  root  is  too  deep  below  the  surface  for  them  to 


KENELM    CHILLINGLY.  435 

reach,  and  year  after  year  stalk  and  leaf  and  bud  re-emerge. 
Love  may  depart  from  our  mortal  life  ;  Ave  console  ourselves 
— the  beloved  will  be  united  to  us  in  the  life  to  come. 
But  if  he  who  sets  his  heart  on  fame  loses  it  in  this  life, 
what  can  console  him  ?  " 

"Did  you  not  say  a  little  while  ago  that  fame  allowed 
.of  no  grave  ? " 

"  True  ;  but  if  we  do  not  achieve  it  before  we  ourselves 
are  in  the  grove,  what  comfort  can  it  give  to  us?  Love  as- 
cends to  heaven,  to  which  we  hope  ourselves  to  ascend  ;  but 
fame  remains  on  the  earth,  which  we  shall  never  again  re- 
visit. And  it  is  because  fame  is  earth-born  that  the  desire 
for  it  is  the  most  lasting,  the  regret  for  the  want  of  it  the 
most  bitter,  to  tlie  child  of  earth.  But  I  shall  achieve  it 
now  ;  it  is  already  in  my  grasp." 

By  this  time  the  travellers  had  arrived  at  the  brook,  fac- 
ing the  wooden  bridge  beside  Cromwell  Lodge. 

Here  the  Minstrel  halted  ;  and  Kenelm,  with  a  certain 
tremble  in  his  voice,  said,  "Is  it  not  time  that  we  should 
make  ourselves  known  to  each  other  by  name  ?  I  have  no 
longer  any  cause  to  conceal  mine,  indeed  I  never  had  any 
cause  stronger  than  whim — Kenelm  Chillingly,  the  only  s.in 
of  Sir  Peter,  of  Exmundham, shire." 

"  I  wish  your  father  joy  of  so  clever  a  son,"  said  the 
Minstrel,  with  his  wonted  urbanity.  "You  already  know 
enough  of  me  to  be  aware  that  I  am  of  much  humbler  birth 
and  station  than  you  ;  but  if  you  chance  to  have  visited  the 
exhibition  of  the  Royal  Academy  this  year — ah!  I  under- 
stand that  start — you  might  have  recognized  a  picture  of 
which  you  have  seen  the  rudimentary  sketch,  '  Tlie  girl  with 
the  flower  ball,'  one  of  three  pictures  very  severely  handled 
by  'The  Londoner,'  but,  in  spite  of  that  potent  enemy,  in- 
suring fortune  and  promising  fame  to  the  Wandering  Min- 
strel, w^hose  name,  if  the  sio-ht  of  the  oictures  had  induced 
you  to  inquire  into  that,  you  would  have  found  to  be  Wal- 
ter Melville.  Next  January  I  hope,  thanks  to  that  picture, 
to  add  'Associate  of  the  Royal  Academy.'  The  public  will 
not  let  them  keep  me  out  of  it,  in  spite  of  'The  Londoner.' 
You  are  probably  an  expected  guest  at  one  of  the  more  im- 
posing villas  from  which  we  see  the  distant  lights.  I  am 
going  to  a  very  humble  cottage,  in  which  henceforth  I  hope 
to  find  my  established  home.  I  am  .there  now  only  for  a 
few  days,  but  pray  let  me  welcome  you  there  before  I  leave. 
The  cottage  is  called  Grasmere." 


436  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  Minstrel  gave  a  cordial  parting  shake  of  the  hand 
to  the  fellow-traveller  whom  he  had  advised  to  settle  down, 
not  noticing  how  very  cold  had  become  tlie  hand  in  his  own 
genial  grasp.  Lightly  he  passed  over  the  wooden  bridge, 
preceded  by  Max,  and  merrily,  when  he  had  gained  the  other 
side  of  the  bridge,  came  upon  Kenelm's  ear,  through  the 
hush  of  the  luminous  night,  the  verse  of  the  uncompleted 
love-song : 

"  Singing; — singing, 
Lustily  singing, 
Down  the  road,  with  liis  clogs  before, 
Came  the  Ritter  of  Neiieatein." 

Love-song,  uncompleted — why  uncompleted  ?  It  was  not 
given  to  Kenelm  to  divine  the  why.  It  was  a  love-song 
versifying  one  of  the  prettiest  fairy-tales  in  tlie  world, 
which  was  a  great  favorite  with  Lily,  and  which  IJon  had 
promised  Lily  to  versify,  but  only  to  complete  it  in  her 
presence  and  to  her  perfect  satisfaction. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


If  I  could  not  venture  to  place  upon  paper  the  exact 
words  of  an  eloquent  coveter  of  fame,  the  earth-born,  still 
less  can  I  dare  to  place  upon  paper  all  lliat  passed  through 
the  voiceless  heart  of  a  coveter  of  love,  the  heaven-born. 

From  the  hour  in  which  Kenelm  Chillingly  had  parted 
from  Walter  Melville  until  somewhere  between  sunrise  and 
noon  the  next  day,  the  summer  joyousness  of  that  external 
nature  which  does  now  and  tlicn,  though  for  the  most  part 
deceitfully,  address  to  the  soid  of  man  questions  and  an- 
swers all  her  soulless  own,  latighed  away  the  gloom  of  his 


miS2:ivmgs. 


.—>    —  ^ 

No  doubt  this  Walter  Melville  was  the  beloved  guardian 

of  Lily  ;  no   doubt  it  was  Lily   whom  he   designated   as  re- 


KEiVELM   CHILLINGLY.  437 

served  and  reared  to  become  his  bride.  But  on  that  ques- 
tion Lily  herself  had  the  sovereign  voice.  It  remained  yet 
to  be  seen  whether  Kenelm  had  deceived  himself  in  the 
belief  that  had  made  the  world  so  beautiful  to  him  since  the 
hour  of  their  last  parting.  At  all  events  it  was  due  to  her, 
due  even  to  his  rival,  to  assert  his  own  claim  to  her  choice. 
And  the  more  he  recalled  all  that  Lily  had  ever  said  to  him 
of  her  guardian,  so  openly,  so  frankly,  proclaiming  affection, 
admiration,  gratitude,  the  more  convincingly  his  reasonings 
allayed  his  fears,  whispering,  "So  might  a  child  speak  of  a 
parent :  not  so  does  the  maiden  speak  of  the  man  she  loves  ; 
she  can  scarcely  trust  herself  to  praise." 

In  fine,  it  was  not  in  despondent  mood,  nor  with  deject- 
ed looks,  that,  a  little  before  noon,  Kenelm  crossed  the 
bridge  and  re-entered  the  enchanted  land  of  Grasmere.  In 
answer  to  his  inquiries,  the  servant  who  opened  the  door 
said  that  neither  Mr.  Melville  nor  Miss  Mordaunt  were  at 
home  ;  they  had  but  just  gone  out  togetlier  for  a  walk.  He 
was  about  to  turn  back,  when  Mrs.  Cameron  came  into  the 
hall,  and,  rather  by  gesture  than  words,  invited  him  to  en- 
ter. Kenelm  followed  her  into  the  drawing-room,  taking 
his  seat  beside  her.  He  was  about  to  speak,  when  she  in- 
terrupted him  in  a  tone  of  voice  so  unlike  its  usual  languor, 
so  keen,  so  sharp,  that  it  sounded  like  a  cry  of  distress. 

"I  was  just  about  to  come  to  you.  Happily,  however, 
you  find  me  alone,  and  what  may  pass  between  us  will  be 
soon  over.  But  first  tell  me — you  have  seen  your  parents  ; 
you  have  asked  their  consent  to  wed  a  girl  such  as  I  de- 
scribed ;  tell  me,  oh,  tell  me  that  that  consent  is  refused  !  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  here  with  their  full  permission 
to  ask  the  hand  of  your  niece." 

Mrs.  Cameron  sank  back  in  her  chair,  rocking  herself  to 
and  fro  in  the  posture  of  a  person  in  great  pain. 

"  I  feared  that.  Walter  said  he  had  met  you  last  even- 
ing ;  that  you,  like  himself,  entertained  the  thought  of 
marriage.  You,  of  course,  when  you  learnt  his  name,  must 
have  known  with  whom  his  thought  was  connected.  Hap- 
pily, he  could  not  divine  what  was  the  choice  to  which  your 
youthful  fancy  had  been  so  blindly  led." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Cameron,"  said  Kenelm,  very  mildly,  but 
very  firmly,  "you  were  aware  of  the  purpose  for  which  I 
left  Moleswich  a  few  days  ago,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  you 
might  have  forestalled  my  intention,  the  intention  which 
brings  me  thus  early  to  your  house,     I  come  to  say  to  Miss 


43S  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

Mordaunt's  guardian,  '  I  ask  the  hand  of  your  Avard.  If  you 
also  woo  her,  I  have  a  very  noble  rival.  With  both  of  us  no 
consideration  for  our  own  happiness  can  be  comparable  to 
the  duty  of  consulting  hers.  Let  her  choose  between  the 
two.'" 

"Impossible!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cameron;  "impossible! 
You  knou^  not  what  you  say  ;  know  not,  guess  not,  how 
sacred  are  the  claims  of  Walter  Melville  to  all  tliat  the  orphan 
whom  he  has  protected  from,  her  very  birth  can  give  him  in 
return.  She  has  no  right  to  a  preference  for  another  ;  her 
heart  is  too  grateful  to  admit  of  one.  If  the  choice  were 
given  to  her  between  him  and  you,  it  is  he  whom  she  would 
choose.  Solemnly  I  assure  you  of  this.  Do  not,  then,  subject 
her  to  the  pain  of  such  a  choice.  Suppose,  if  you  will,  that 
you  had  attracted  her  fancy,  and  that  now  you  proclaimed 
your  love  and  urged  your  suit,  she  would  not,  must  not,  the 
less  reject  your  hand,  but  you  might  cloud  her  happiness  in 
accepting  Melville's.  Be  generous.  Conquer  your  own 
fancy  ;  it  can  be  but  a  passing  one.  Speak  not  to  her,  not 
to  Mr.  Melville,  of  a  wish  which  can  never  be  realized.  Go 
hence,  silently,  and  at  once." 

The  words  and  the  manner  of  the  pale  imploring  woman 
struck  a  vague  awe  into  the  heart  of  her  listener.  But  he 
did  not  the  less  resolutely  answer,  "I  cannot  obey  you.  It 
seems  to  me  that  my  honor  commands  mc  to  prove  to  your 
niece  tliat,  if  I  mistook  the  nature  of  her  feelings  towards 
me,  I  did  not,  by  word  or  look,  lead  her  to  believe  mine  to- 
wards herself  were  less  in  earnest  than  they  are  ;  and  it 
seems  scarcely  less  honorable  towards  my  worthy  rival  to 
endanger  his  own  future  happiness,  should  he  discover  later 
that  his  bride  would  have  been  happier  with  another.  Why 
be  so  mysteriously  apprehensive  ?  If,  as  you  say,  with  such 
apparent  conviction,  there  is  no  doubt  of  your  niece's  prefer- 
ence for  another,  at  a  word  from  her  own  lips  I  depart,  and 
you  will  see  me  no  more.  But  that  word  must  be  said  by 
her;  and  if  you  will  not  permit  me  to  ask  for  it  in  your  own 
house,  I  will  take  my  chance  of  finding  her  now,  on  her  walk 
with  Mr.  Melville  ;  and,  could  he  deny  me  the  right  to  speak 
to  her  alone,  that  which  I  would  say  can  be  said  in  his  pres- 
ence. Ah  !  madam,  have  you  no  mercy  for  the  heart  that 
you  so  needlessly  torture  ?  If  I  must  bear  the  worst,  let  me 
learn  it,  and  at  once." 

"  Learn  it,  then,  from  my  lips,"  said  Mrs.  Cameron, 
speaking  with  a  voice  unnaturally  calm,  and  features  rigidly 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY.  439 

set  into  stern  composure.  "  And  I  place  the  secret  you 
wring  from  me  under  tlie  seal  of  that  honor  which  you  so 
vauntingly  make  your  excuse  for  imperiling  tlie  peace  of  the 
home  I  ought  never  to  have  suffered  you  to  enter.  An  honest 
couple,  of  humble  station  and  narrow  means,  had  an  only 
son,  who  evinced  in  early  childhood  talents  so  remarkable 
that  they  attracted  the  notice  of  the  father's  employer,  a  rich 
man  of  very  benevolent  heart  and  very  cultivated  taste.  He 
sent  the  child,  at  his  expense,  to  a  first-rate  commercial 
school,  meaning  to  provide  for  him  later  in  his  own  firm. 
The  rich  man  was  the  head  partner  of  an  eminent  bank  ; 
but  very  infirm  health,  and  tastes  much  estranged  from 
business,  had  induced  him  to  retire  from  all  active  share  in 
the  firm,  the  management  of  which  was  confided  to  a  son 
whom  he  idolized.  But  the  talents  of  \.\iq  pi'ot:ge\^Q  had  sent 
to  school,  there  took  so  passionate  a  direction  towards  art, 
and  estranged  from  trade,  and  his  designs  in  drawing  when 
shown  to  connoisseurs  were  deemed  so  promising  of 
future  excellence,  that  the  patron  changed  his  original  in- 
tention, entered  him  as  a  pupil  in  the  studio  of  a  distinguish- 
ed French  painter,  and  afterwards  bade  him  perfect  his  taste 
by  the  study  of  Italian  and  Flemish  masterpieces. 

"  He  was  still   abroad,  when "   here    Mrs.    Cameron 

stopped,  with  visible  effort,  suppressed  a  sob,  and  went  on, 
whisperingly,  through  teeth  clinched  together — "when  a 
thunderbolt  fell  on  the  liouse  of  the  patron,  shattering  his 
fortunes,  blasting  his  name.  The  son,  unknown  to  the  father, 
had  been  decoyed  into  speculations,  which  proved  unfortun- 
ate ;  the  loss  might  have  been  easily  retrieved  in  the  first 
instance,  unhappily  he  took  the  wrong  course  to  retrieve  it, 
and  launched  into  new  hazards.  I  must  be  brief.  One  day  the 
world  was  startled  by  the  news  that  a  firm,  famed  for  its 
supposed  wealth  and  solidity,  was  bankrupt.  Dishonesty 
was  alleged,  was  proved,  not  against  the  father, — he  went 
forth  from  the  trial,  censured  indeed  for  neglect,  not  con- 
demned for  fraud,  but  a  penniless  pauper.  The — son— the 
son — the  idolized  son — was  removed  from  the  prisoner's 
dock,  a  convicted  felon,  sentenced  to  penal  servitude.  Es- 
caped that  sentence  by — by — you  guess— you  guess.  ^  How 
could  he  escape  except  through  death  ? — death  by  his  own 
guilty  deed." 

Almost  as  much  overpowered  by  emotion  as  Mrs. 
-Cameron  herself,  Kenelm  covered  his  bended  face  with  one 


440  KENELM  CinLLFNGLY. 

hand,  stretching  out  the  other  blindly  to  clasp  her  own,  but 
she  would  not  take  it. 

A  dreary  foreboding.  Again  before  his  eyes  rose  the 
old  gray  tower — again  in  his  ears  thrilled  the  tragic  tale  of 
the  Fletvvodes.  What  was  yet  left  untold  held  the  young 
man  in  spell-bound  silence.     Mrs.  Cameron  resumed  : 

"  I  said  the  father  was  a  penniless  pauper  ;  he  died 
lingeringly  bed-ridden.  But  one  faithful  friend  did  not  de- 
sert that  bed  ;  the  youth  to  whose  genius  his  wealth  had 
ministered.  lie  had  come  from  abroad  with  some  modest 
savings  from  the  sale  of  copies  or  sketches  made  in  Florence, 
These  savings  kept  a  roof  over  the  heads  of  the  old  man  and 
the  two  helpless  broken-hearted  women-paupers  like  himself, 
—his  own  daughter  and  his  son's  widow.  When  the  savings 
were  gone,  the  young  man  stooped  from  his  destined  calling, 
found  employment  somehow,  no  matter  how  alien  to  his 
tastes,  and  these  three  whom  his  toil  supported  never  wanted 
a  home  or  food.  Well,  a  few  weeks  after  her  husband's 
terrible  death,  his  young  widow  (they  had  not  been  a  year 
married)  gave  birth  to  a  child — a  girl.  She  did  not  survive  the 
exhausticm  of  her  confinement  many  days.  The  shock  of  her 
death  snapped  the  feeble  thread  of  the  poor  father's  life. 
Both  were  borne  to  the  grave  on  the  same  day.  Before 
they  died,  both  made  the  same  prayer  to  their  sole  two 
mourners,  the  felon's  sister  and  tlie  old  man's  young  bene- 
factor. The  prayer  was  this,  that  the  new-born  infant 
should  be  reared,  however  liumbly,  in  ignorance  of  her 
birth,  of  a  father's  guilt  and  shame.  She  was  not  to  pass  a 
suppliant  for  charity  to  rich  and  high-born  kinsfolk,  who 
had  vouchsafed  no  word  even  of  pity  to  the  felon's  guiltless 
father  and  as  guiltless  wife.  That  promise  has  been  kept 
till  now.  I  am  tliat  daughter.  The  name  I  bear,  and  the 
name  which  I  gave  to  my  niece,  are  not  ours,  save  as  we 
may  indirectly  claim  them  through  alliances  centuries  ago. 
I  have  never  married.  I  was  to  have  been  a  bride,  bringing 
to  the  representative  of  no  ignoble  house  what  was  to  have 
been  a  princely  dower  ;  the  wedding-day  was  fixed,  when 
the  bolt  fell.  I  have  never  again  seen  my  betrothed.  He 
went  abroad  and  died  there.  I  think  he  loved  me,  he  knew 
I  loved  him.  Who  can  blame  him  for  deserting  me?  Who 
could  marry  the  felon's  sister !  Who  would  marry  the 
felon's  cliild  ?  Who,  but  one  ?  The  man  who  knows  her 
secret,  and  will  guard  it ;  the  man  who,  caring  little  for  other 
education,  has  helped  to  instill  into  her  spotless  childhood 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  44I 

SO  steadfast  a  love  of  truth,  so  exquisite  a  pride  of  honor, 
that  did  she  know  such  ignominy  rested  on  her  birth,  she 
would  pine  herself  away." 

"  Is  there  only  one  man  on  earth,"  cried  Kenelm,  sud- 
denly, rearing  his' face, — till  then  concealed  and  downcast, 
— and  with  a  loftiness  of  pride  on  its  aspect,  new  to  its  won- 
ted mildness,  "  Is  there  only  one  man  who  would  deem  the 
virgin,  at  whose  feet  he  desires  to  kneel  and  say,  '  Deign  to 
be  the  queen  of  my  life,'  not  far  too  noble  in  herself  to  be 
debased  by  the  sins  of  others  before  she  was  even  born  ;  is 
there  only  one  man  who  does  not  think  that  the  love  of 
truth  and  the  pride  of  honor  are  rnost  royal  attributes  of 
woman  or  of  man,  no  matter  whether  the  fathers  of  the 
woman  or  the  man  were  pirates  as  lawless  as  the  fathers  of 
Norman  kings,  or  liars  as  unscrupulous,  where  their  own 
interests  were  concerned,  as  have  been  the  crowned  repre- 
sentatives of  lines  as  deservedly  famous  as  Caesars  and 
Bourbons,  Tudors  and  Stuarts  ?  Nobility,  like  genius,  is 
inborn.  One  man  alone  guard  her  secret ! — guard  a  secret 
that  if  made  known  could  trouble  a  heart  that  recoils  from 
shame  !  Ah,  madam,  we  Chillinglys  are  a  very  obscure 
undistinguished  race,  but  for  more  than  a  thousand  years 
we  have  been  English  gentlemen.  Guard  her  secret  rather 
than  risk  the  chance  of  discovery  that  could  give  her  a 
pang?  I  would  pass  my  whole  life  by  her  side  in 
Kamtchatka,  and  even  there  I  would  not  snatch  a  glimpse  of 
the  secret  itself  with  mine  owm  eyes,  it  should  be  so  closely 
muffled  and  wrapped  round  by  the  folds  of  reverence  and 
worship." 

This  burst  of  passion  seemed  to  Mrs.  Cameron  the  sense- 
less declamation  of  an  inexperienced,  hot-headed  young 
man,  and,  putting  it  aside,  much  as  a  great  lawyer  dismisses 
as  balderdash  the  florid  rhetoric  of  some  junior  counsel, 
rhetoric  in  which  the  great  lawyer  had  once  indulged,  or  as 
a  woman  for  whom  romance  is  over  dismisses  as  idle  ver- 
biage some  romantic  sentiment  that  befools  her  young 
daughter,  Mrs.  Cameron  simply  replied,  "All  this  is  hollow 
talk,  Mr.  Chillingly  ;  let  us  come  to  the  point.  After  all  I 
have  said,  do  you  mean  to  persist  in  your  suit  to  my 
niece  ?  " 

"I  persist." 

"What!"  she  cried,  this  time  indignantly,  and  with  gen- 
erous indignation  ;  "  what,  even  were  it  possible  that  you 
could  win  your  parents'  consent  to  marry  the  child  of  a  man 

19* 


443  K EX  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

condemned  to  penal  servitude,  or,  consistently  with  the 
duties  a  son  owes  to  parents,  conceal  that  fact  from  them, 
could  you,  born  to  a  station  on  which  every  gossip  will  ask, 
'Wluj  and  what  is  the  name  of  the  future  Lady  Chillingly?' 
believe  that  the  who  and  the  what  will  never  be  discovered  ? 
Have  vou,  a  mere  stranger,  unknown  to  us  a  few  weeks  ngo, 
a  right  to  say  to  Walter  Melville,  '  Resign  to  me  that  wiiich 
is  your  sole  reward  for  the  sublime  sacrifices,  for  the  hjyal 
devotion,  for  the  watchful  tenderness  of  patient  years  '  ? " 

"Surely,  madam,"  cried  Kcnelm,  more  startled,  more 
sliaken  in  soul  by  this  appeal  than  by  the  previous  revela- 
tions ;  "  surely,  when  we  last  parted,  when  I  confided  to  you 
my  love  for  your  uiece,  when  you  consented  to  my  propo- 
sal to  return  home  and  obtain  my  father's  approval  of  my 
suit  ;  surely  then  was  the  time  U)  say,  '  No  ;  a  suitor  with 
claims  paramount  and  irresistible  has  come  before  you.'  " 

"  I  did  not  then  know,  Heaven  is  my  witness,  I  did  not 
then  even  suspect,  that  Walter  Melville  ever  dreamed  of 
seeking  a  wife  in  the  child  who  had  grown  up  under  his 
eyes.  You  must  own,  indeed,  how  much  I  discouraged 
your  suit  ;  I  could  not  discourage  it  more  without  revealing 
the  secret  of  her  birth,  only  to  be  revealed  as  an  extreme 
necessity.  But  my  persuasion  was  that  your  father  would 
not  consent  to  your  alliance  with  one  so  far  beneath  the  ex- 
pectations he  was  entitled  to  form,  and  the  refusal  of  that 
consent  would  terminate  all  further  acquaintance  between 
you  and  Lily,  leaving  her  secret  undisclosed.  It  was  not  till 
you  had  left,  only  indeed  two  days  ago,  that  I  received  from 
Walter  ^Melville  a  letter,  which  told  me  what  I  had  never 
before  conjectured.  Here  is  the  letter  ;  read  it,  and  then 
say  if  you  have  the  heart  to  force  yourself  into  rivalry  with 

— with "     She  broke  off,  choked  by  her  exertion,  thrust 

the  letter  into  his  hands,  and  with  keen,  eager,  hungry  stare 
watched  his  countenance  while  he  read. 

Street,  Bloomshury. 


"  Mv  DEAR  Frikn'D, — Joy  and  triumph  !  My  picture  is  conii>lcU(l ; 
the  picture  on  which,  for  so  many  months,  I  have  worked  night  and  day  in 
tliis  den  of  a  studio,  without  a  glimpse  of  the  green  fields,  concealing  my  ad- 
dress from  every  one,  even  from  you,  lest  I  might  he  tempted  to  suspend  my 
labors.  The  picture  is  completed— it  is  sold  ;  guess  the  price  !  Fifteen 
liundred  guineas,  and  to  a  dealer — a  dealer  !  Think  of  that  !  It  is  to  be 
carried  about  the  country,  exhibited  by  itself.  You  remember  those  three 
little  landscapes  of  mine  which  two  years  ago  I  would  gladly  have  sold  for  ten 
pounds,  only  neither  Lily  nor  you  would  let  me.  My  good  friend  and  earliest 
patron,  the  German  merchant  at  Luscombe,  who  called  on  me  yesterday,.-trf- 


KENELM  CHILLEVGLY.  443 

fered  to  cover  tliem  with  guineas  thrice  piled  over  the  canvas.  Imagine  how 
happv  I  felt  when  1  forced  him  to  accep-  them  as  a  present.  What  a  leap  in 
a  man's  life  it  is  when  he  can  afford  to  say  '  1  give  !'  Now  then,  at  last,  at 
last  I  am  in  a  posuion  which  justifies  the  utterance  of  the  hope  which  has  for 
eighteen  years  been  my  solace,  my  support  ;  been  the  sunbeam  that  ever  shone 
through  the  gloom,  when  my  fate  was  at  the  darkest ;  been  the  melody  that 
buoyeti  me  aloft  as  in  the  song  of  the  skylark,  when  in  the  voices  of  men  I 
heard  but  the  laugh  of  scorn.  Do  you  remember  the  night  on  which  Lily"s 
mother  besouglit  us  to  bring  up  her  child  in  iinonuice  of  her  parentage,  nut 
evjn  communicaie  to  unkind  and  disdainful  relatives  that  such  a  child  was 
bjrn  ?  do  you  remember  how  plaintively,  and  yet  how  pioudly,  she  so  nobly 
born,  so  luxuriously  nurtured,  clasping  my  hand  when  I  ventured  to  remon- 
strate and  say  that'her  own  family  could  not  condemn  her  child  because  of  her 
father's  guilt, — she,  the  proudest  woman  I  ever  knew,  she  whose  smile  I  can 
at  rare  mjments  detect  in  Lily,  raised  her  head  from  her  pillow,  and  gasped 
forth  : 

"  '  I  am  dying — the  last  words  of  the  dying  are  conmiands.  I  command 
you  to  see  that  my  child's  lot  is  not  that  of  a  felor's  daughter  transported  t>) 
the  hearth  of  nobles.  To  be  happy,  her  lut  must  be  humble— no  roof  too 
humble  to  shelter,  no  Imsband  too  humble  to  wed,  the  felon's  daughter.' 

"  From  that  hour  I  formed  the  resolve  that  I  would  keep  hand  and  heart 
free,  that  wlien  the  grandchild  of  my  princely  benefactor  grew  up  into  wo- 
manhood I  might  say  to  her,  'I  am  humbly  born,  but  thy  mother  would  have 
given  thee  to  me.'  Tne  new-born,  consigned  to  our  charge,  has  now  ripened 
into  woman,  and  I  have  now  so  assured  my  fortune  that  it  is  no  longer  pov- 
erty and  struggle  that  I  should  ask  her  to  share.  I  am  con=cious  that,  were 
her  fate  not  so  excepiionil,  this  hope  of  mine  would  be  a  vain  presumplinn — 
ctmscious  that  I  am  but  the  creature  of  her  grandsire's  bounty,  and  that  from 
it  springs  all  1  ever  can  be— conscious  of  tlie  disparity  in  years — conscious  of 
many  a  jiast  error  and  present  fault.  But,  as  fate  so  ordains,  such  considera- 
tions are  trivial ;  I  am  her  rightful  choice.  What  other  choice,  compatible 
■with  these  necessities  which  weigh,  dear  and  honored  friend,  immeasurably 
more  on  your  sense  of  honor  than  tliey  do  upon  mine,  and  yet  mine  is  not 
dull?  Granting,  then,  that  you,  her  nearest  and  most  responsible  relative, 
do  not  condemn  me  for  presumption,  all  else  seems  to  me  clear.  Lily's  child- 
like affection  for  me  is  too  deep  and  too  fond  not  to  warm  into  a  wife's  love. 
Happily,  too,  she  has  not  been  reared  in  the  stereotyped  boarding-school 
shallownesses  of  knowledge  and  vulgarities  of  gentility;  but  educated,  like 
myself,  by  the  free  mfluences  of  nature;  longing  for  no  halls  and  palaces 
save  those  that  we  build  as  we  list,  in  fairyland  ;  educated  to  comprehend 
and  to  share  the  fancies  which  are  more  than  booklore  to  the  worshiper  of  art 
and  song.  In  a  day  or  two,  perhaps  the  day  after  you  receive  thi.s,  I  shall  be 
able  to  escape  from  London,  and  most  likely  shall  come  on  foot  as  usual. 
How  I  long  to  see  once  more  the  woodbine  on  the  hedge-rows,  the  green 
blades  of  the  corn-field,  the  sunny  lapse  of  the  river,  and,  dearer  still,  the  tiny 
f.alls  of  our  own  little  noisy  rill  !  Meanwhile  I  entreat  you,  dearest,  gentlest, 
mo.st  honored  of  such  few  friends  as  my  life  has  hitherto  won  to  itself,  to  con- 
sider well  the  direct  purport  of  this  letter.  If  you.  born  in  a  grade  so  much 
higher  tlian  mine,  feel  that  it  is  unwarrantable  insolence  in  me  to  asp're  to 
the  hand  of  my  patron's  grandchild,  say  so  plainly ;  and  I  remain  not  less 
grateful  for  your  friendship,  than  I  was  to  your  goodness  when  dining  for  the 
first  time  at  your  father's  palace.  Shy  and  sensitive  and  young,  I  felt  that 
his  grand  guests  wondered  why  I  was  invited  to  the  same  board  as  themselves 


444  KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY. 

You,  tlien  courted,  admired,  you  liad  sympathetic  compassion  on  the  raw, 
sullen  hoy  ;  left  tliose  who  then  seemed  to  me  like  the  gods  and  goddesses  of 
a  heatlien  Pantheon,  to  come  and  sit  beside  your  fatiier's /;-<;/i'^/,  and  cheer- 
ingly  whimper  to  him  such  words  as  make  a  low-born,  amliitious  lad  go  home 
light-hearted,  saying  to  himself,  '  Some  day  or  other.'  And  what  it  is  to  an 
ambitious  lad,  fancying  himself  lifted  by  the  gods  and  goddesses  of  a  Pan- 
theon, to  go  home  light-hearted,  muttering  to  himself,  '  Some  day  or  other,' 
I  doubt  if  even  you  can  divine. 

"  But  should  you  be  as  kind  to  the  presumjituous  man  as  you  were  to  the 
bashful  boy,  and  say,  '  Realized  be  the  dream,  fulfilled  be  the  object  of  your 
life  !  take  from  me,  as  her  next  of  kin,  the  last  descendant  of  your  bene- 
factor,' then  I  ven'ure  to  address  to  you  tliis  request.  You  are  in  the  place 
of  motiier  to  your  sister's  child  ;  act  for  iier  as  a  keeper  now,  to  prepare  her 
mind  and  heart  for  the  coming  change  in  the  relations  between  her  and  me. 
When  I  last  saw  her,  six  months  ago,  she  was  still  so  playfully  infantine  that 
it  half  seems  to  me  I  should  be  sinning  agamst  the  reverence  due  to  a  child, 
if  I  said  too  abruptly,  '  You  are  woman,  and  I  love  you  not  as  child  but  as 
woman.'  And  yet,  time  is  not  allowed  to  me  for  long,  cautious,  and  gradual 
slide  from  the  relationship  (jf  friend  into  that  of  lover.  I  now  understand 
what  the  great  master  of  my  art  once  said  to  me,  '  A  career  is  a  destiny.' 
liy  one  of  those  merchant  princes  who  now  at  Manchester,  as  they  diil  once 
at  Genoa  or  Venice,  reign  alike  over  those  two  civilizers  of  the  world  which 
to  dull  eyes  seem  antagonistic.  Art  and  Commerce,  an  offer  is  made  to  me 
for  a  ])icture  on  a  subject  which  strikes  his  fancy  ;  an  ofTer  so  magnificently 
liberal  that  his  commerce  must  command  my  art;  and  the  nature  of  the  sub- 
ject compels  me  to  seek  the  banks  of  the  Rhine  as  soon  as  may  be.  I  must 
have  all  the  hues  of  the  foliage  in  the  meridian  glories  of  summer.  I  can  but 
stay  at  Grasmere  a  very  few  days  ;  but  before  I  leave  I  must  know  this,  am  I 
going  to  work  for  Lily  or  am  I  not  ?  On  the  answer  to  that  question  de- 
pends all.  If  not  to  work  for  her  there  will  be  no  glory  in  the  summer,  no 
triumph  in  art  to  me  :  I  refuse  the  offer  If  she  says,  '  Yes  ;  it  is  for  me  you 
work,'  then  she  becomes  my  destmy.  She  assures  my  career.  Here  I  speak 
as  an  artist :  nobody  who  is  not  an  artist  can  guess  how  sovereign  over  even 
his  moral  being,  at  a  certain  critical  epoch  in  his  career  of  artist  or  his  life  of 
man,  is  the  success  or  the  failure  of  a  single  work.  Put  I  go  on  to  speak  as 
man.  My  hwe  for  Lily  is  such  for  the  last  six  months,  that  though  if  she 
rejected  me  I  should  still  serve  art,  still  yearn  for  fame,  it  would  be  as  an  old 
man  might  do  either.     The  youth  of  my  life  would  be  gone. 

"As  man  I  say,  all  my  thoughts  all  my  dreams  of  happiness,  distinct 
from  Art  and  fame,  are  summed  up  in  the  one  question — '  Is  Lily  to  be  my 
wife  or  not  ? ' 

"  Yours  afTectionately, 

«'W.  M." 

Kenelm  returned  the  letter  without  a  word. 

Enraged  by  his  silence,  Mrs.  Cameron  exclaimed  :  "  Now, 
sir,  what  say  you  ?  You  have  scarcely  known  Lily  five 
weeks.  What  is  the  feverish  fancy  of  five  weeks'  growth 
to  the  life-long  devotion  of  a  man  like  this  ?  Do  you  now 
dare  to  say,  '  I  persist '  ? " 

Kenelm  waved  his  hand  very  quietly,  as  if  to  dismiss  all 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  445 

conception  of  taunt  and  insult,  and  said,  with  his  soft  mel- 
ancholy eyes  fixed  upon  the  working  features  of  Lily's  aunt, 
"  This  man  is  more  worthy  of  her  than  I.  He  prays  you, 
in  his  letter,  to  prepare  your  niece  for  that  change  of  rela- 
tionship which  he  dreads  too  abruptly  to  break  to  her  him- 
self.    Have  you  done  so  ?" 

"  I  have  ;  the  night  I  got  the  letter." 

"And — you  hesitate  ;  speak  truthfully,  I  implore.  And 
—she " 

"  She,"  answered  Mrs.  Cameron,  feeling  herself  involun- 
tarily compelled  to  obey  the  voice  of  that  prayer,  "  she 
seemed  stunned  at  first,  muttering,  'This  is  a  dream — it  can- 
not be  true — cannot!  I  Lion's  wife — I — I  !  I  his  destiny  ! 
In  me  his  happiness!'  And  then  she  laughed  her  pretty 
child's  laugh,  and  put  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  said, 
'You  are  jesting,  aunty.  He  could  not  write  thus  !'  So  I 
put  that  part  of  his  letter  under  her  eyes  ;  and  when  she  had 
convinced  herself,  her  face  became  very  grave,  more  like  a 
woman's  face  than  I  ever  saw  it ;  and  after  a  pause  she 
cried  out,  passionately,  'Can  you  think  me — can  I  think 
myself — so  bad,  so  ungrateful,  as  to  doubt  wliat  I  should 
answer,  if  Lion  asked  me  whether  I  would  willingly  say  or 
do  anything  that  made  him  unhappy  ?  If  there  be  such  a 
doubt  in  my  heart,  I  would  tear  it  out  by  the  roots,  heart 
and  all  !'  Oh,  ]Mr.  Chillingly,  there  would  be  no  happiness 
for  her  with  another,  knowing  that  she  had  blighted  the  life 
of  him  to  whom  she  owes  so  much,  though  she  never  will 
learn  how  much  more  she  owes,"  Kenelm  not  replying  to 
this  remark,  ^Nlrs.  Cameron  resumed.  "  I  will  be  perfectly 
frank  with  you,  ^Ir.  Chillingly.  I  was  not  quite  satisfied 
with  Lily's  manner  and  looks  the  next  morning,  that  is,  yes- 
terday. I  did  fear  there  might  be  some  struggle  in  her 
mind  in  which  there  entered  a  thought  of  yourself.  And 
when  Walter,  on  his  arrival  here  in  the  evening,  spoke  of 
you  as  one  he  had  met  before  in  his  rural  excursions,  but 
whose  name  he  only  learned  on  parting  at  the  bridge  by 
Cromwell  Lodge,  I  saw  that  Lily  turned  pale,  and  shortly 
afterwards  went  to  her  own  room  for  the  night.  Fearing 
that  any  interview  with  you,  though  it  Avould  not  alter  her 
resolve,  might  lessen  her  happiness  on  the  only  choice  she 
can  and  ouglit  to  adopt,  I  resolved  to  visit  you  this  morning, 
and  make  that  appeal  to  your  reason  and  your  heart  which 
I  have  done  now — not,  I  am  sure,  in  vain.  Hush  !  I  hear 
his  voice  I " 


446  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

Melville  entered  the  room,  Lilv  leaning  on  his  arm.  The 
artist's  comely  face  was  radiant  witli  an  ineffable  joyousness. 
Leaving  Lily,  he  reac  hed  Kenelm's  side  as  with  a  single 
bound,  shook  hiui  heartily  by  the  hand,  and  said,  "I  find 
th.it  you  have  already  been  a  welcomed  visitor  in  this  house. 
L(Mig  may  you  be  so,  so  say  I,  so  (1  answer  for  her)  says  my 
f  lir  betrothed,  to  whom  I  need  not  present  you." 

Lily  advanced,  and  held  out  her  hand  very  timidly. 
Kenelm  touched  rather  than  clasped  it.  His  own  strong 
hand  trembled  like  a  leaf.  lie  ventured  but  one  glance  at 
her  face.  All  the  bloom  had  died  out  of  it,  but  the  expres- 
sion seemed  to  him  wondrously,  cruelly  tranquil. 

"Your  betrothed — your  future  bride!"  he  said  to  the 
artist,  with  a  mastery  over  his  emotion  rendered  less  difficult 
by  the  single  glance  at  that  tranquil  face.  "  I  wish  you  joy. 
All  happiness  to  you,  Miss  Mordaunt.  You  have  made  a 
noble  choice." 

He  looked  round  for  his  hat  ;  it  lay  at  his  feet,  but  he  did 
not  see  it ;  his  eyes  wandering  away  with  uncertain  vision, 
like  those  of  a  sleep-walker. 

Mrs.  Cameron  picked  up  the  hat  and  gave  it  to  him. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  meekly  ;  then  with  a  smile  half 
sweet,  half  bitter,  "  I  have  so  much  to  thank  you  for,  Mrs. 
Cameron." 

"  But  you  are  not  going  already — just  as  I  enter,  too. 
Hold  !  Mrs.  Cameron  tells  me  you  are  lodging  with  my  old 
friend  Jones.  Come  and  stop  a  couple  of  days  with  us  :  we 
can  find  you  a  room  ;  the  room  over  your  butterfly  cage,  eh, 
Fairy?" 

"  Thank  you,  too.  Thank  you  all.  No  ;  I  must  be  in 
London  by  the  first  train." 

Speaking  thus,  he  had  found  his  way  to  the  door,  bowed 
with  the  quiet  grace  that  characterized  all  his  movements, 
and  was  gone. 

"  Pardon  his  abruptness,  Lily  ;  he  tc^o  loves  ;  he  too  is  im- 
patient to  find  a  betrothed,"  said  the  artist,  gayly  ;  "  but  now 
lie  knows  my  dearest  secret,  I  think  I  have  a  riglit  to  know 
his  ;  and  I  will  try." 

He  had  scarcely  uttered  the  words  before  lie  too  had  quit- 
ted the  room  and  overtaken  Kcnclm  just  at  the  threshold. 

"  If  you  are  going  back  to  Cromwell  Lodge— to  pack  up, 
I  suppose— let  me  walk  with  you  as  far  as  the  bridge." 

Kenelm  inclined  his  head  assentingly  and  tacitly  as  they 
passed  through  the  garden  gate,  winding  backward  through 


KEN  ELM    CHILLINGLY.  447 

the  lane  which  skirted  the  garden  pales  ;  when,  at  the  very 
spot  in  which  the  day  after  their  first  and  only  quarrel  Lily's 
face  had  been  seen  brightening  through  the  evergreens,  that 
day  on  which  the  old  woman,  quitting  her,  said,  "  God  bless 
you  !  "  and  on  which  the  vicar,  walking  with  KeneLm,  spoke 
of  her  fairy  charms  ;  well,  just  in  that  spot  Lily's  face  ap- 
peared again,  not  this  time  brightening  through  the  ever- 
greens, unless  the  palest  gleam  of  the  palest  moon  can  be 
said  to  brighten.  Kenelm  saw,  started,  halted.  His  com- 
panion, then  in  the  rush  of  a  gladsome  talk  of  which  Kenelm 
had  not  heard  a  word,  neither  saw  nor  halted  ;  he  walked  on 
mechanically,  gladsome  and  talking. 

Lily  stretched  forth  her  hand  through  the  evergreens. 
Kenelm  took  it  reverentially.  This  time  it  was  not  his  hand 
that  trembled. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said  in  a  whisper,  "  good-bye  forever  in 
this  world.  You  understand — you  do  understand  me.  Say 
that  you  do." 

"  I  understand.  Noble  child — noble  choice.  God  bless 
you  !  God  comfort  me  !  "  murmured  Kenelm.  Their  eyes 
met.  Oh,  the  sadness,  and,  alas  !  oh,  the  love,  in  the  eyes 
of  botli ! 

Kenelm  passed  on. 

All  said  in  an  instant.  How  many  Alls  are  said  in  an  in- 
stant !  Melville  was  in  the  midst  of  some  glowing  sentence, 
begun  when  Kenelm  dropped  from  his  side,  and  the  end  of 
the  sentence  was  this  : 

"  Words  cannot  say  how  fair  seems  life,  how  easy  seems 
conquest  of  fame,  dating  from  this  day — this  day" — and  in 
his  turn  he  halted,  looked  round  on  the  sunlit  landscape  and 
breathed  deep,  as  if  to  drink  into  his  soul  all  of  the  earth's 
joy  and  beauty  which  his  gaze  could  compass  and  the  arch 
of  the  horizon  bound. 

"They  who  knew  her  even  the  best,"  resumed  the  artist, 
striding  on,  "even  her  aunt,  never  could  guess  how  serious 
and  earnest,  under  all  her  infantine  prettiness  of  fancy,  is  that 
girl's  real  nature.  We  were  walking  along  the  brook-side, 
when  I  began  to  tell  her  how  solitary  the  world  would  be  to 
me  if  T  could  not  win  her  to  my  side  ;  while  I  spoke  she  had 
turned  aside  from  the  path  we  had  taken,  and  it  was  not  till 
we  were  under  the  shadow  of  the  church  in  which  we  shall 
be  married  that  she  uttered  the  words  that  give  to  every  cloud 
in  my  fate  the  silver  lining  ;  implying  thus  how  solemnly 


448  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

connected  in   her   mind  was  the   thought  of  love  with   the 
sanctity  of  religion." 

Kenehn  shuddered — the  church — the  burial-ground — the 
old  gothic  tomb — the  tlowers  round  the  infant's  grave  ! 

"But  1  am  talking  a  great  deal  too  much  about  myself," 
resumed  the  artist.  "  Lovers  are  the  most  consummate  of 
all  egotists,  and  the  most  garrulous  of  all  gossips.  You  have 
wished  me  joy  on  my  destined  nuptials,  when  shall  I  wish 
you  joy  on  yours  ?  Since  we  have  begun  to  confide  in  each 
other,  you  are  in  my  debt  as  to  a  confidence." 

They  had  now  gained  the  bridge.  Kenelm  turned  round 
abruptly  :  "  Good-day  ;  let  us  part  here.  I  have  nothing  to 
confide  to  you  that  might  not  seem  to  your  ears  a  mockeiy 
when  I  wish  you  joy."  vSo  saying,  so  obeying  in  spite  of 
himself  the  anguish  of  his  heart,  Kenelm  wrung  his  com- 
panion's hand  with  the  force  of  an  uncontrollable  agony,  and 
speeded  over  the  bridge  before  Melville  recovered  his  sur- 
prise. 

The  artist  would  have  small  claim  to  the  essential  attri- 
bute of  genius,  viz.,  the  intuitive  sympathy  of  passion  with 
passion,  if  that  secret  of  Kenelm's  which  he  had  so  lightly 
said  "he  had  acquired  the  right  to  learn  "  was  not  revealed 
to  him  as  by  an  electric  Hash.  "Poor  fellow  !  "  he  said  to 
himself,  pityingly  ;  "  how  natural  that  he  should  fall  in  love 
with  Fairy  !  but  happily  he  is  so  young,  and  such  a  philoso- 
pher, that  it  is  but  one  of  those  trials  through  which,  at  least 
ten  times  a  year,  I  have  gone  with  wounds  that  leave  not  a 
scar." 

Thus  soliloquizing,  the  warm-blooded  worshipper  of  Na- 
ture returned  homeward,  too  blest  in  the  triumph  of  his  own 
love  to  feel  more  than  a  kindly  compassion  for  the  wounded 
heart,  consigned  with  no  doubt  of  the  healing  result  to  the 
fickleness  of  youth  and  the  consolations  of  philosophy.  Not 
for  a  moment  did  the  happier  rival  suspect  that  Kenelm's 
love  was  returned  ;  that  an  atom  in  the  heart  of  the  girl  who 
had  promised  to  be  his  bride  could  take  its  light  or  shadow 
from  any  love  but  his  own.  Yet,  more  from  delicacy  of  re- 
spect to  the  rival  so  suddenly  self-betrayed,  than  from  any 
more  prudential  motive,  he  did  not  speak  even  to  Mrs.  Cam- 
eron of  Kenelm's  secret  and  sorrow  ;  and  certainly  neither 
she  nor  Lily  was  disposed  to  ask  any  question  that  concerned 
the  departed  visitor. 

In  fact,  the  name  of  Kenelm  Chillingly  was  scarcely,  if  at 
all,  mentioned  in  that  household  during  the  few  days  which 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  449 

elapsed  before  Walter  Melville  quitted  Grasmere  for  the 
banks  of  the  Rhine,  not  to  return  till  the  autumn,  when  his 
marriage  with  Lily  was  to  take  place.  During  those  days 
Lily  was  calm  and  seemingly  cheerful — her  manner  towards 
her  betrothed,  if  more  subdued,  not  less  affectionate  than  of 
old.  Mrs.  Cameron  congratulated  herself  on  having  so  suc- 
cessfully got  rid  of  Kenelm  Chillingly. 


CHAPTER  VIIL 


So.  then,  but  for  that  officious  warning,  uttered  under  the 
balcony  at  Luscombe,  Kenelm  Chillingly  might  never  have 
had  a  rival  in  Walter  Melville.  But  ill  would  any  reader 
construe  the  character  of  Kenelm,  did  he  think  that  such  a 
thought  increased  the  bitterness  of  his  sorrow.  No  sorrow 
in  the  thought  that  a  noble  nature  had  been  saved  from  the 
temptation  to  a  great  sin. 

The  good  man  does  good  merely  by  living.  And  the 
good  he  does  may  often  mar  the  plans  he  formed  for  his 
own  happiness.  But  he  cannot  regret  that  Heaven  has  per- 
mitted him  to  do  good. 

What  Kenelm  did  feel  is  perhaps  best  explained  in  the 
letter  to  Sir  Peter,  which  is  here  subioined  : 

"  My  dearest  Father. — Never  till  my  dying  day  shall  I  forget  that 
tender  desire  for  my  happiness  with  which,  overcoming  all  worldly  considera- 
tions, no  matter  at  what  disappointment  to  your  own  cherished  plans  or  am- 
bition for  the  heir  to  your  name  and  race,  you  sent  me  away  from  your  roof, 
these  words  ringing  in  my  ear  like  the  sound  of  joy-bells,  '  Choose  as  you  will, 
with  my  blessing  on  your  choice.  I  open  my  heart  to  admit  anotlier  child — 
your  wife  shall  be  my  daughter.'  It  is  such  an  unspeakable  comfort  to  me  to 
recall  those  words  now.  Of  all  human  affections  gratitude  is  surely  the  holiest  ; 
and  it  blends  itself  with  the  sweetness  of  religion  when  it  is  gratitude  to  a 
father.  And,  therefore,  do  not  grieve  too  much  for  me,  when  I  tell  you  that 
the  hopes  which  enchanted  me  when  we  parted  are  not  to  be  fulfiUerl.  Her 
hand  is  pledged  to  another — another  with  claims  upon  her  preference  to  which 
mine  cannot  be  compared  ;  and  he  is  himself,  putting  aside  the  accidents  of 
birth  and  fortune,  immeasurably  my  superior.  In  that  thought — I  mean  the 
thought  that  the  man  she  selects  deserves  her  more  than  I  do,  and  that  in  his 
happiness  she  will  blend  her  own — I  shall  find  comfort,  so  soon  as  I  can  fairly 
reason  down  the  first  all-engrossing  selfishness  that  follows  the  sense  of  unex- 
pected and  irremediable  loss.  Meanwhile  you  will  think  it  not  unnatural  that 
I  resort  to  such  aids  for  change  of  heart  as  are  afforded  by  change  of  scene. 
I  start  for  the  Continent  to-night,  and  shall  not  rest  till  I  reach  Venice,  which 


4:o 


KENELM   CHILLINGL  V. 


I  have  not  yet  seen.  I  feel  irresistibly  attracted  towards  still  cnnals  and  glid- 
ing gondolas.  I  will  write  to  you  and  to  my  dear  mother  the  (lay  I  arrive. 
And  I  trust  to  write  clieerfully,  with  full  accounts  of  all  I  see  and  encounter. 
Do  not,  dearest  father,  in  your  letters  to  me  revert  or  allude  to  that  grief, 
which  even  the  tenderest  word  from  your  own  tender  self  might  but  chafe  into 
pain  more  sensitive.  After  all,  a  disappointed  love  is  a  very  common  lot.  And 
we  meet  every  day  men — ay,  and  women  too — who  have  known  it,  and  are 
thoroughly  cured. 

"  Tlie  manliest  of  our  modern  lyrical  poets  has  said  very  nobly  and,  no 
doubt,  very  justly, 

'  To  bear  is  to  conquer  our  fate.' 

"  Ever  your  loving  son, 

"K.  C." 


CHAPTER  IX. 


Nearly  a  year  and  a  half  lias  elapsed  since  the  date  of 
my  last  chapter.  Two  Englishmen  were — the  one  seated, 
the  other  reclined  at  length — on  one  of  the  mounds  that 
furrow  the  ascent  of  Posilippo.  Before  them  spread  the 
noiseless  sea,  basking  in  the  sunshine,  without  visible  ripple  ; 
to  the  left  there  was  a  distant  glimpse  through  gaps  of  brush- 
wood of  the  public  gardens  and  white  water  of  the  Chiaja. 
Thev  were  friends  who  had  chanced  to  meet  abroad, — une>'- 
pectcdly, — joined  company,  and  travelled  together  for  many 
months,  chiefly  in  the  East.  They  had  been  but  a  few  days 
in  Naples.  The  elder  of  the  two  had  important  afTairs  in 
Enofland  which  ought  to  have  summoned  him  back  long 
since.  But  he  did  not  let  his  friend  know  this  ;  his  affairs 
seemed  to  him  less  important  than  the  duties  he  owed  to  one 
for  whom  he  entertained  that  deep  and  noble  love  which  is 
something  stronger  than  brotherly,  for  with  brotherly  affec- 
tion it  combines  gratitude  and  reverence,  lie  knew,  too, 
that  his  friend  was  oppressed  by  a  haunting  sorrow,  of  which 
the  cause  was  divined  by  one,  not  revealed  by  the  other. 

To  leave  him,  so  beloved,  alone  with  that  sorrow  in 
strange  lands,  was  a  thought  not  to  be  cherished  by  a  friend 
so  tender  ;  for  in  the  friendship  of  this  man  there  was  that 
sort  of  tenderness  which  completes  a  nature  thoroughly  man- 
like, by  giving  it  a  touch  of  the  woman's.. 

It  was  a  day  which  in  our  northern  climates  is  that  of 
winter  ;  in  the  southern  clime  of  Naples  it  was  mild  as  an 
English  summer  day  lingering  on  the  brink  of  autumn.  The 
sun  was  sloping  towards   the  west,  and  already  gathering 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  451 

.iround  it  roseate  and  purple  fleeces.  Elsewhere,  the  deep- 
blue  sky  was  without  a  cloudlet. 

Both  had  been  for  some  minutes  silent  ;  at  length  the 
man  reclined  on  the  grass— it  was  the  younger  man — said 
suddenly,  and  with  no  previous  hint  of  the  subject  intro- 
duced, "  Lay  your  hand  on  your  heart,  Tom,  and  answer  me 
truly.  Are  your  thoughts  as  clear  from  regrets  as  the  hea- 
vens above  us  are  from  a  cloud  ?  Man  takes  regret  from 
tears  that  have  ceased  to  flow,  as  the  heaven  takes  cloud  from 
the  rains  that  have  ceased  to  fall." 

"  Regrets  ?  Ah,  I  understand,  for  the  loss  of  the  girl  I 
once  loved  to  distraction  !  No  ;  surely  I  made  that  clear  to 
you  many,  many,  many  months  ago,  when  I  was  your  guest 
at  Moleswich." 

"Ay,  but  I  have  never,  since  then,  spoken  to  you  on  that 
subject.  I  did  not  dare.  It  seems  to  me  so  natural  that  a 
man,  in  the  earlier  struggle  between  love  and  reason,  should 
say,  'reason  shall  conquer,  and  has  conquered  ;'  and  yet — • 
and  yet — as  time  glides  on,  feel  that  the  conquerors  who  can- 
not put  down  rebellion  have  a  very  uneasy  reign.  Answer 
me  not  as  at  Moleswich,  during  the  first  struggle,  but  now, 
in  the  after-day,  when  reaction  from  struggle  comes." 

"  Upon  my  honor,"  answered  the  friend,  "  I  have  had  no 
reaction  at  all.  I  was  cured  entirely  when  I  had  once  seen 
Jessie  again,  another  man's  wife,  mother  to  his  child,  happy 
in  her  marriage,  and — whether  she  was  changed  or  not — very 
different  from  the  sort  of  wife  I  should  like  to  marry,  now 
that  I  am  no  longer  a  village  farrier." 

"And,  I  remember,  you  spoke  of  some  other  girl  whom 
it  would  suit  you  to  marry.  You  have  been  long  abroad 
fromx  her.  Do  you  ever  think  of  her — think  of  her  still  as 
your  future  wife  ?  Can  you  love  her  ?  Can  you,  who  have 
once  loved  so  faithfully,  love  again  ? " 

"  I  am  sure  of  that.  I  love  Emily  better  than  I  did  when 
I  left  England.  We  correspond.  She  writes  such  nice  let- 
ters." Tom  hesitated,  blushed,  and  continued  timidly,  "  I 
should  like  to  show  you  one  of  her  letters." 

"Do." 

Tom  drew  forth  the  last  of  such  letters  from  his  breast- 
pocket. 

Kenelm  raised  himself  from  the  grass,  took  the  letter,  and 
read  slowly,  carefully,  while  Tom  watched  in  vain  for  some 
approving  smile  to  brighten  up  the  dark  beauty  of  that  mel- 
ancholy face. 


452 


KEN  EL  M   C///L  I.  LVGL  V. 


Certainly  it  was  the  letter  a  man  in  love  might  show  with 
pride  to  a  friend  ;  the  letter  of  a  lady,  well  educated,  well 
brought  up,  evincing  affection  modestly,  intelligence  mod- 
estly too  ;  the  sort  of  a  letter  in  which  a  niotlier  who  loved 
her  daughter,  and  approved  the  daughter's  choice,  could  not 
have  suggested  a  correction. 

As  Kenelm  gave  back  the  letter,  his  eyes  met  his  friend's. 
Those  were  eager  eyes — eyes  hungering  for  praise.  Kenclm's 
heart  smote  him  for  that  worst  of  sins  in  friendship — want  of 
sympathy  ;  and  that  \measy  heart  forced  to  his  lips  congrat- 
ulations, not  perhaps  quite  sincere,  but  wliich  amply  satisfied 
the  lover.  In  uttering  them,  Kenelm  rose  to  his  feet,  threw 
his  arm  round  his  friend's  shoulder,  and  said,  "  Are  you  not 
tired  of  this  place,  Tom  ?  I  am.  Let  us  go  back  to  England 
to-morrow."  Tom's  honest  face  brightened  vividly.  "How 
selfish  and  egotistical  I  have  been  !"  continued  Kenelm  ;  "  I 
ought  to  have  thought  more  of  you,  your  career,  your  mar- 
riage— pardon  me " 

"  Pardon  you — pardon  !  Don't  I  owe  to  you  all — owe  to 
you  Emily  herself?  If  you  had  never  come  to  Graveleigh, 
never  said,  '  Be  my  friend,'  what  should  I  have  been  now  ? 
what — what  ? " 

The  next  day  the  two  friends  quitted  Naples,  en  route  for 
England,  not  exchanging  many  words  by  the  way.  The  old 
loquacious  crotchety  humor  of  Kenelm  had  deserted  him.  A 
duller  companion  than  he  was  you  could  not  have  conceived. 
He  might  have  been  the  hero  of  a  young  lady's  novel. 

It  was  only  when  they  parted  in  London  that  Kenelm 
evinced  more  secret  purpose,  more  external  emotion  than 
one  of  his  heraldic  Daces  shifting  from  the  bed  to  the  sui>- 
face  of  a  waveless  pond. 

"  If  I  have  rightly  understood  you,  Tom,  all  this  change  in 
you,  all  this  cure  of  torturing  regret,  was  wrought — wrought 
lastingly — wrought  so  as  to  leave  you  heart-free  for  the  world's 
actions  and  a  home's  peace,  on  that  eve  when  you  saw  her 
whose  face  till  then  had  haunted  you,  another  man's  happy 
wife,  and,  in  so  seeing  her,  either  her  face  was  changed,  or 
your  heart  became  so." 

"Quite  true.  I  might  express  it  otherwise,  but  the  fact 
remains  the  same." 

"  God  bless  you,  Tom  ;  bless  you  in  your  career  without, 
in  your  home  within,"  said  Kenelm,  wringing  his  friend's 
hand  at  the  door  of  the  carriage  that  was  to  whirl  to  love, 
and  wealth,  and  station,  the  whilom  bully  of  a  village,  along 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY.  453 

the  iron  groove  of  that  contrivance  which,  though  now  the 
tritest  of  prosaic  realities,  seemed  once  too  poetical  for  a 
poet's  wildest  visions. 


CHAPTER   X. 


A  winter's  evening  at  Moleswich.  Very  different  from 
a  winter  sunset  at  Naples.  It  is  intensely  cold.  There  has 
been  a  slight  fall  of  snow,  accompanied  with  severe,  bright, 
clear*  frost,  a  thin  sprinkling  of  white  on  the  pavements. 
Kenelm  Chillingly  entered  the  town  on  foot,  no  longer  a 
knapsack  on  his  back.  Passing  through  the  main  street,  he 
paused  a  moment  at  the  door  of  Will  Somers.  The  shop 
was  closed.  No,  he  would  not  stay  there  to  ask  in  a  round- 
about way  for  news.  He  would  go  in  straightforwardly  and 
manfully  to  Grasmere.  He  would  take  the  inmates  there  by 
surprise.  The  sooner  he  could  bring  Tom's  experience  home 
to  himself,  the  better.  He  had  schooled  his  heart  to  rely  on 
that  experience,  and  it  brought  him  back  the  old  elasticity  of 
his  stride.  In  his  lofty  carriage  and  buoyant  face  was  again 
visible  the  old  haughtiness  of  the  indifferentism  that  keeps 
itself  aloof  from  the  turbulent  emotions  and  conventional 
frivolities  of  those  whom  its  philosophy  pities  and  scorns. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  laughed  he  who,  like  Swift,  never  laughed 
aloud,  and  often  laughed  inaudibly.  "  Ha  !  ha  !  I  shall  exor- 
cise the  ghost  of  my  grief.  I  shall  never  be  haunted  again. 
If  that  stormy  creature  whom  love  might  have  maddened 
into  crime, — if  he  were  cured  of  love  at  once  by  a  single  visit 
to  the  home  of  her  w^hose  face  was  changed  to  him — for  the 
smiles  and  the  tears  of  it  had  become  the  property  of  another 
man — how  much  more  should  I  be  left  without  a  scar  !  I, 
the  heir  of  the  Chillinglys  !  I,  the  kinsman  of  a  Mivers  !  I, 
the  pupil  of  a  Welby  !     I — I,  Kenelm  Chillingly,  to  be  thus 

■ — thus "     Here,  in  the  midst  of  his  boastful  soliloquy, 

the  well-remembered  brook  rushed  suddenly  upon  eye  and 
ear,  gleaming  and  moaning  under  the  wintry  moon.  Kenelm 
Chillingly  stopped,  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  burst 
into  a  passion  of  tears. 

Recovering  himself  slowly,  he  went  on  along  the  path, 
every  step  of  which  was  haunted  by  the  form  of  Lily. 

He  reached  the  garden-gate  of  Grasmere,  lifted  the  latch, 


454  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

and  entered.  As  he  did  so,  a  man,  touching  his  hat,  rushed 
beside,  and  advanced  before  him — the  village  postman. 
KeneJm  drew  back  allowing  the  man  to  pass  to  the  door,  and 
as  he  thus  drew  back  he  caught  a  side  view  of  lighted  win- 
dows looking  on  the  lawn — the  windows  of  the  pleasant 
drawing-room  in  which  he  had  first  heard  Lily  speak  of  lier 
guardian. 

The  postman  left  his  letters,  and  regained  the  garden  gate, 
while  Kenelm  stood  still  wistfully  gazing  on  those  lighted 
windows.  He  had,  meanwhile,  advanced  along  the  whitened 
sward  to  the  light,  saying  to  himself,  "  Let  me  just  see  her 
and  her  happiness,  and  then  I  will  knock  boldly  at  the  door 
and  say,  'Good-evening,  Mrs.  Melville.'" 

So  Kenelm  stole  across  the  lawn,  and,  stationing  himself 
at  the  angle  of  the  wall,  looked  into  the  window. 

Melville,  in  dressing-robe  and  slippers,  was  seated  alone 
by  the  fireside.  His  dogAvas  lazily  stretched  on  the  hearfh- 
rug.  One  by  one  the  features  of  the  room,  as  the  scene  of 
his  vanished  happiness,  grew  out  from  its  stillness  ;  the  del- 
icately-tinted walls  ;  the  dwarf  bookcase,  with  its  feminine 
ornaments  on  the  upper  shelf;  the  piano  standing  in- the 
same  place.  Lily's  own  small  low  chair  ;  that  was  not  in  its 
old  place,  but  thrust  into  a  remote  angle,  as  jf  it  had  passed 
into  disuse.  Melville  Avas  reading  a  letter,  no  doubt  one  of 
those  which  tlie  postman  had  left.  Surely  the  contents  were 
pleasant,  for  his  fair  face,  always  frankly  expressive  of  emo- 
tion, brightened  wonderfully  as  he  read  on.  Then  he  rose 
with  a  quick,  brisk  movement,  and  pulled  the  bell  hastily. 

A  neat  maid-servant  entered — a  strange  face  to  Kenelm. 
Melville  gave  her  some  brief  message.  "  He  has  had  joyous 
news,"  thought  Kenelm.  "He  has  sent  for  his  wife,  that 
she  may  share  his  joy."  Presently  the  door  opened,  and 
entered,  not  Lily,  but  Mrs.  Cameron. 

She  looked  changed  ;  her  natural  quietude  of  mien  and 
movement  the  same,  indeed,  but  with  more  languor  in  it. 
Her  hair  had  become  gray.  Melville  was  standing  by  the 
table  as  she  approached  him.  He  put  the  letter  into  her 
hands  with  a  gay,  proud  smile,  and  looked  over  her  shoulder 
while  slie  read  it,  pointing  with  his  finger  as  to  some  lines 
that  should  more  emphatically  claim  her  attention. 

When  she  had  finished,  her  face  reflected  his  smile.  They 
exchanged  a  lieartv  shake  of  the  hand,  as  if  in  congratulation. 
"  Ah,"  thought  Kenelm,  "  the  letter  is  from  Lily.  She  is 
abroad.     Perhaps  the  birth  of  a  first-born." 


KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY,  455 

Just  then  Blanche,  who  had  not  been  visible  before, 
emerged  from  under  the  table,  and,  as  Melville  re-seated  him- 
self by  the  fireside,  sprang  into  his  lap,  rubbing  herself 
against  his  breast.  The  expression  of  his  face  changed ;  he 
uUered  some  low  exclamation.  Mrs.  Cameron  took  the 
creature  from  his  lap,  stroking  it  quietly,  carried  it  across 
the  room,  and  put  it  outside  the  door.  Then  she  seated  her- 
self beside  the  artist,  placing  her  hand  in  his,  and  they  con- 
versed in  low  tones,  till  Melville's  face  again  grew  bright, 
and  again  he  took  up  the  letter. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  maid-servant  entered  with  the  tea 
things,  and,  after  arranging  them  on  the  table,  approached 
the  window.  Kenelm  retreated  into  the  shade,  the  servant 
closed  the  shutters  and  drew  the  curtains — that  scene  of  quiet 
home  comfort  vanished  from  the  eyes  of  the  looker-on. 

Kenelm  felt  strangely  perplexed.  What  had  become  of 
Lily  ?  was  she  indeed  absent  from  her  home  ?  Had  he  con- 
jectured rightly,  that  the  letter  which  had  evidently  so  glad- 
dened Melville  was  from  her,  or  was  it  possible — here  a 
thought  of  joy  seized  his  heart  and  held  him  breathless — was 
it  possible  that,  after  all,  she  had  not  married  her  guardian  ; 
had  found  a  home  elsewhere — was  free?  He  moved  on 
farther  down  the  lawn,  towards  the  water,  that  he  might 
better  bring  before  his  sight  that  part  of  the  irregular  build- 
ing in  which  Lilv  formerly  had  her  sleeping-chamber  and 
her  "own — own  room."  AH  was  dark  there;  the  shutters 
inexorably  closed.  The  place  with  which  the  childlike  girl 
had  asssociated  her  most  childlike  fancies,  taming  and  tend- 
ing the  honey-drinkers  destined  to  pass  into  fairies,  that 
fragile  tenement  was  not  closed  against  the  winds  and  snows  ; 
its  doors  were  drearily  open  ;  gaps  in  the  delicate  wire-work  ; 
of  its  dainty  draperies  a  few  tattered  shreds  hanging  here 
and  there  ;  and  on  the  depopulated  floor  the  moonbeams  rest- 
ing cold  and  ghostly.  No  spray  from  the  tiny  fountain  ;  its 
basin  chipped  and  mouldering  ;  the  scanty  waters  therein 
frozen.  Of  all  the  pretty  wild  ones  that  Lily  fancied  she 
could  tame,  not  one.  Ah  !  yes,  there  was  one,  probably  not 
of  the  old  familiar  number  ;  a  stranger  that  might  have  crept 
in  for  shelter  from  the  first  blasts  of  winter,  and  now  clung 
to  an  angle  in  the  farther  wall,  its  wings  folded — asleep,  not 
dead.  But  Kenelm  saw  it  not  ;  he  noticed  only  the  general 
desolation  of  the  spot. 

"  Natural  enough,"  thought  lie.     "She  has  outgrown  all 
such  pretty  silliness.     A  wife  cannot  remain  a  child.     Still, 


4S6  KEN  ELM   CITILLINGLY. 

if  she  had  belonged  to  me.  .  .  ."  The  thought  choked 
even  his  inward,  unspoken  utterance.  He  turned  away, 
paused  a  moment  under  the  leafless  boughs  of  the  great 
willow  still  dipping  into  the  brook,  and  then  with  impatient 
steps  strode  back  towards  the  garden  gate. 

"  No — no — no.  I  cannot  now  enter  that  house  and  ask 
for  Mrs.  Melville.  Trial  enough  for  one  night  to  stand  on 
the  old  ground.  I  will  return  to  the  town.  I  will  call  at 
Jessie's,  and  there  I  can  learn  if  she  indeed  be  happy." 

So  lie  went  on  by  the  path  along  the  brook-side,  the 
night  momently  colder  and  colder  and  momently  clearer 
and  clearer,  while  the  moon  noiselessly  glided  into  loftier 
heights.  Wrapt  in  his  abstracted  thoughts,  Avhen  he  came 
to  the  spot  in  which  the  path  split  in  twain  he  did  not  take 
that  which  led  more  directly  to  the  town.  His  steps,  natur- 
ally enough  following  the  train  of  his  thoughts,  led  him 
along  the  path  witl'i  which  the  object  of  his  thoughts  was 
associated.  He  foiuid  himself  on  the  burial-ground,  and  in 
front  of  the  old  ruined  tomb  with  the  effaced  inscription. 

"Ah!  child — child!"  he  murmured  almost  audibly, 
"  what  depths  of  woman  tenderness  lay  concealed  in  thee  ! 
In  what  loving  sympathy  witli  the  past — sympathy  only 
vouchsafed  to  the  tenderest  women  and  the  highest  poets — 
didst  thou  lay  thy  flowers  on  the  tomb  to  which  thou  didst 
give  a  poet's  history  interpreted  by  a  woman's  heart,  little 
dreaming  that  beneath  the  stone  slept  a  hero  of  thine  own 
fallen  race." 

He  passed  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  yews,  whose 
leaves  no  winter  wind  can  strew,  and  paused  at  the  ruined 
tomb — no  flower  now  on  its  stone,  only  a  sprinkling  of  snow 
at  the  foot  of  it — sprinklings  of  snow  at  the  foot  of  each 
humbler  grave-mound.  Motionless  in  the  frosty  air  rested 
the  pointed  church  spire,  and  through  the  frosty  air,  higher 
and  higlier  up  the  arch  of  heaven,  soared  the  unpausing 
moon.  Around,  and  below,  and  above  her,  the  stars  which 
no  science  can  number  ;  yet  not  less  difficult  to  nimiber  are 
the  thoughts,  desires,  aspirations,  which,  in  a  space  of  time 
briefer  than  a  winter's  night,  can  pass  through  the  infinite 
deeps  of  a  human  soul. 

From  his  standby  the  gothic  tomb,  Kenelm  looked  along 
the  churchyard  for  the  infant's  grave,  which  Lily's  pious 
care  had  bordered  with  votive  flowers.  Yes,  in  that  direction 
there  was  still  a  gleam  of  color  ;  could  it  be  of  flowers  in 
that  biting  winter-time  ?  — the  moon  is  so  deceptive,  it  silvers 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  457 

into  the  hue  of  the  jessamines  the  green  of   the   everlast- 


ings. 


He  passed  towards  the  white  grave-mound.  His  sight 
had  duped  him  ;  no  pale  flower,  no  green  "  everlasting,"  on 
its  neglected  border — only  brown  mould,  withered  stalks, 
streaks  of  snow. 

"And  yet,"  he  said,  sadly,  "she  told  me  she  had  never 
broken  a  promise  ;  and  she  had  given  a  promise  to  the  dying 
child.     Ah  !  she  is  too  happy  now  to  think  of  the  dead." 

So  murmuring,  he  was  about  to  turn  towards  the  town, 
when  close  by  that  child's  grave  he  saw  another.  Round 
that  other  there  were  pale  "everlastings,"  dwarfed  blossoms 
of  the  laurestinus  ;  at  the  four  angles  the  drooping  bud  of  a 
Christmas  rose  ;  at  the  head  of  the  grave  was  a  white  stone, 
its  sharp  edges  cutting  into  the  star-lit  air  ;  and  on  the  head, 
in  fresh  letters,  were  inscribed  these  words  : 


To  the  Memory  of 

L.  M., 

Aged  17, 

Died  October  29,  a.d.  18 — . 

This  stone,  above  tlie  grave  to  which  her  mortal 

remains  are  consigned,  beside  tliat  of  an  infant  not 

more  sinless,  is  consecrated  by  those  who 

most  mourn  and  miss  her. 

Isabel  Cameron, 

Walter  Melvh.le. 

•'  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me." 


CHAPTER  XI. 


The  next  morning  Mr.  Emlyn,  passing  from  his  garden 
to  the  town  of  Moleswich,  descried  a  human  form  stretched 
on  the  burial-ground,  stirring  restlessly  but  very  slightly,  as 
if  with  an  involuntary  shiver,  and  uttering  broken  sounds, 
very  faintly  heard,  like  the  moans  that  a  man  in  pain  strives 
to  suppress  and  cannot. 

The  rector  hastened  to  the  spot.  The  man  was  lying,  his 
face  downward,  on  a  grave-mound,  not  dead,  not  asleep. 

"Poor  fellow  !  overtaken  by  drink,  I  fear,"  thought  the 
gentle  pastor  ;  and  as  it  was  the  habit  of  his  mind  to  com- 
passionate error  even  more  than  grief,  he  accosted  the  sup- 


4^3  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

• 

posed  sinner  in  very  soothing  tones — trying  to  raise  him 
from  the  ground — and  with  very  kindly  words. 

Tiien  the  man  lifted  his  face  from  its  pillow  on  the  grave- 
mound,  looked  round  him  dreamily  into  the  gray,  blank  air 
of  the  cheerless  morn,  and  rose  to  his  feet  quietly  and 
slowly. 

The  vicar  was  startled  ;  he  recognized  the  face  of  him  he 
had  last  seen  in  the  magnificent  affluence  of  health  and 
strength.  But  the  character  of  the  face  was  changed — so 
changed  !  its  old  serenity  of  expression,  at  once  grave  and 
sweet,  succeeded  by  a  wild  trouble  in  the  heavy  eyelids  and 
trembling  lips. 

"  Mr.  Chillingly — you  !     Is  it  possible  ?  " 

"  Varus,  Varus,"  exclaimed  Kenelm,  passionately,  "  what 
hast  thou  done  with  my  legions  ?" 

At  that  quotation  of  the  well-known  greeting  of  Augus- 
tus to  his  unfortunate  general,  the  scholar  recoiled.  Had 
his  young  friend's  mind  deserted  him — dazed,  perhaps,  by 
over-study  ? 

He  was  soon  reassured  ;  Kenelm's  face  settled  back  into 
calm,  though  a  dreary  calm,  like  that  of  the  wintry  day. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  Mr.  Emlyn  ;  I  had  not  quite  shaken 
off  the  hold  of  a  strange  dream.  I  dreamed  that  I  was 
worse  off  than  Augustus  ;  he  did  not  lose  the  world  when 
the  legions  he  had  trusted  to  another  vanished  into  a 
grave." 

Here  Kenelm  linked  his  arm  in  that  of  the  rector — on 
which  he  leaned  ratlier  heavily — and  drew  him  on  from  the 
burial-ground  into  the  open  space  where  the  two  paths  met 

"But  how  long  have  you  returned  to  Moleswich?" 
asked  Emlyn  ;  "and  how  come  you  to  choose  so  damp  a 
bed  Un  your  morning  slumbers  ?" 

"  The  wintry  cold  crept  into  my  veins  when  I  stood  in 
the  burial-ground,  and  I  was  very  weary  ;  I  had  no  sleep 
at  night.  Do  not  let  me  take  you  out  of  your  way  ;  I  am 
going  on  to  Grasmere.  So  I  see,  by  the  record  on  a  grave- 
stone, that  it  is  more  than  a  year  ago  since  Mr.  Melville  lost 
his  wife." 

"Wife  ?     He  never  married." 

"  Wliat  !  "  cried  Kenelm.  "Whose,  then,  is  that  grave- 
stone-* L.  M.'  ?" 

"  Alas  !  it  is  our  poor  Lily's." 

"  And  she  died  unmarried  ?" 

As  Kenelm  said  this  he  looked  up,  and  the  sun  broke 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  459 

out  from  the  gloomy  haze  of  the  morning.  "  I  may  claim 
thee,  then,"  he  thought  within  himself — •"  claim  thee  as 
mine  when  we  meet  again." 

"  Unmarried— yes,"  resumed  the  vicar.  "She  was  in- 
deed betrothed  to  her  guardian  ;  they  were  to  have  been 
married  in  the  autumn,  on  his  return  from  the  Rhine.  He 
went  there  to  paint  on  the  spot  itself  his  great  picture, 
which  is  now  so  famous — '  Roland,  the  Hermit  Knight, 
looking  towards  the  convent  lattice  for  a  sight  of  the  Holy 
Nun.'  Melville  had  scarcely  gone  before  the  symptoms  of 
the  disease  which  proved  fatal  to  poor  Lily  betrayed  them- 
selves ;  they  baffled  all  medical  skill — rapid  decline.  She 
was  always  very  delicate,  but  no  one  detected  in  her  the 
seeds  of  consumption.  Melville  only  returned  a  day  or  two 
before  her  death.  Dear  childlike  Lily  !  how  we  all  mourned 
for  her!— not  least  the  poor,  who  believed  in  her  fairy 
charms." 

"  And  least  of  all,  it  appears,  the  man  she  was  to  have 
married." 

"He? — Melville?  How  can  you  wrong  him  so?  His 
grief  was  intense — overpowering — for  the  time." 

"For  the  time!  what  time?"  muttered  Kenelm,  in 
tones  too  low  for  the  pastor's  ear. 

They  moved  on  silently.     Mr.  Emlyn  resumed  : 

"  You  noticed  the  text  on  Lily's  grave-stone — 'Suffer  the 
little  children  to  come  unto  me'  ?  She  dictated  it  herself 
the  day  before  she  died.  I  was  with  her  then,  so  I  was  at 
the  last." 

"Were  you — were  you— at  the  last — the  last?  Good- 
day,  Mr.  Ernlyn  ;  we  are  just  in  sight  of  the  garden  gate. 
And — excuse  me — I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Melville  alone." 

"  Well,  then,  good-day  ;  but  if  you  are  making  any  sta}) 
in  the  neighborhood,  \\\\\  you  not  be  our  guest  ?  We  have 
a  room  at  your  service." 

"  I  thank  you  gratefully  !  but  I  return  to  London  in  an 
hour  or  so.  Hold,  a  moment.  You  were  with  her  at  the 
last  ?     She  was  resigned  to  die  ?  " 

"  Resigned  !  that  is  scarcely  the  word.  The  smile  left 
upon  her  lips  was  not  that  of  human  resignation  ;  it  was  the 
smile  of  a  divine  joy." 


46o  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"Yes,  sir,  Mr.  Melville  is  at  home,  in  his  studio." 

Kenelm  followed  the  maid  across  the  liall  into  a  room 
not  built  at  tlie  date  of  Kenelm's  former  visits  to  the  house  ; 
the  artist,  making  Grasmere  his  chief  residence  after  Lily's 
death,  had  added  it  at  the  back  of  the  neglected  place  where- 
in Lily  had  encaged  "the  souls  of  infants  unbaptized." 

A  lofty  room,  with  a  casement,  partially  darkened,  to  the 
bleak  north  ;  various  sketches  on  the  walls  ;  gaunt  speci- 
mens of  antique  furniture,  and  of  gorgeous  Italian  silks, 
scattered  about  in  confused  disorder  ;  one  large  picture  on 
its  easel  curtained  ;  another  as  large,  and  half  finished,  before 
which  stood  the  painter.  He  turned  quickly  as  Keneim  en- 
tered the  room  imannounced,  let  fall  brush  and  palette, 
came  up  to  him  eagerly,  grasped  his  hand,  drooped  his  head 
on  Kenelm's  shoulder,  and  said,  in  a  voice  struggling  with 
evident  and  strong  emotion: 

"  Since  we  parted,  such  grief !  such  a  loss  !" 

"  I  know  it  ;  I  have  seen  her  grave.  Let  us  not  speak 
of  it.  Why  so  needlessly  revive  your  sorrow  ?  So — so — 
your  sanguine  hopes  are  fulfilled — the  world  at  last  has  done 
you  justice  ?  Emlyn  tells  me  that  you  have  painted  a  very 
famous  picture." 

Kenelm  had  seated  himself  as  he  thus  spoke.  The  paint- 
er still  stood  with  dejected  attitude  on  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  and  brushed  his  hand  over  his  moistened  eyes  once  or 
twice  before  he  answered,  "  Yes  :  wait  a  moment,  don't  talk 
of  fame  yet.  Bear  with  me  :  the  sudden  sight  of  you  un- 
nerved me." 

The  artist  here  seated  himself  also  on  an  old  worm-eaten 
gothic  chest,  rumpling  and  chafing  the  golden  or  tinselled 
threads  of  the  embroidered  silk,  so  rare  and  so  time-worn, 
Hung  over  the  gothic  chest,  so  rare  also,  and  so  worm-eaten. 

Kenelm  looked  through  half-closed  Hps  at  the  artist,  and 
his  lips,  before  slightly  curved  with  a  secret  scorn,  became 
gravely  compressed.  In  Melville's  struggle  to  conceal  emo- 
tion the  strong  man  recognized  a  strong  man — recognized, 
and  yet  only  wondered  ;  wondered  how  such  a  man,  to  whom 
Lily  had  pledged  her  hand,  could  so  soon  after  the  loss  of 


KEN  ELM  CHILLINGLY.  461 

Lily  go   on   painting  pictures,  and  care  for  any  praise  be- 
stowed on  a  yard  of  canv^as. 

In  a  very  few  minutes  Melville  recommenced  conversa- 
tion— no  more  reference  to  Lily  than  if  she  had  never  ex- 
isted. "  Yes,  my  last  picture  has  been  indeed  a  success,  a 
reward  complete,  if  tardy,  for  all  the  bitterness  of  former 
struggles  made  in  vain,  for  the  galling  sense  of  injustice,  the 
anguish  of  which  only  an  artist  knows,  when  unworthy 
rivals  are  ranked  before  him. 

'Foes  quick  to  blame,  and  friends  afraid  to  praise.' 

True,  that  I  have  still  much  to  encounter,  the  cliques  still 
seek  to  disparage  me,  but  between  me  and  the  cliques  there 
stands  at  last  the  giant  form  of  the  public,  and  at  last  critics 
of  graver  weight  than  the  cliques  have  deigned  to  accord  to 
me  a  higher  rank  than  even  the  public  yet  acknowledge. 
Ah  !  Mr.  Chillingly,  you  do  not  profess  to  be  a  judge  of 
paintings,  but,  excuse  me,  just  look  at  this  letter.  I  received 
it  only  last  night  from  the  greatest  connoisseur  of  my  art, 
certainly  in  England,  perhaps  in  Europe."  Here  Melville 
drew,  from  the  side  pocket  of  his  picturesque  moyen  age  sur- 
tout,  a  letter  signed  by  a  name  authoritative  to  all  who— be- 
ing painters  themselves — acknowledge  authority  in  one  who 
co'uld  no  more  paint  a  picture  himself  than  Addison,  the 
ablest  critic  of  the  greatest  poem  modern  Europe  has  pro- 
duced, could  have  written  ten  lines  of  the  Paradise  Lost — 
and  thrust  the  letter  into  Kenelm's  hand.  Kenelm  read  it 
listlessly,  with  an  increased  contempt  for  an  artist  who 
could  so  find  in  gratified  vanity  consolation  for  the  life  gone 
from  earth.  But,  listlessly  as  he  read  the  letter,  the  sincere 
and  fervent  enthusiasm  of  the  laudatory  contents  impressed 
him,  and  the  pre-eminent  authority  of  the  signature  could 
not  be  denied. 

The  letter  was  written  on  the  occasion  of  Melville's  re- 
cent election  to  the  dignity  of  R.A.,  successor  to  a  very  great 
artist  whose  death  had  created  a  vacancy  in  the  Academy. 
He  returned  the  letter  to  Melville,  saying,  '*  This  is  the  let- 
ter I  saw  you  reading  last  night  as  I  looked  in  at  your  win- 
dow. Indeed,  for  a  man  who  cares  for  the  opinion  of  other 
men,  this  letter  is  very  flattering  ;  and  for  the  painter  who 
cares  for  money,  it  must  be  very  pleasant  to  know  by  how 
many  guineas  everv  inch  of  his  canvas  may  be  covered." 
Unable  longer  to  control  his  passions  of  rage,  of  scorn,  of 
af^onizing  grief,  Kenelm  then  burst  forth,  "Man,  Man,  whom 


402  KEN  ELM   CHILLINGLY. 

I  once  accepted  us  a  tcaclicr  on  iiiiman  life,  a  teacher  to 
\varm,  to  brighten,  to  exalt  mine  own  indifferent,  dreamy, 
slow-pLdsed  self  !  has  not  the  one  woman  whom  thou  didst 
select  out  of  this  over-crowded  world  to  be  bone  of  thy  bone, 
flesh  of  thy  flesh,  vanished  evermore  from  the  earth — little 
more  than  a  year  since  her  voice  was  silenced,  her  heart 
ceased  to  beat  ?  But  how  slight  is  such  loss  to  thy  life, 
compared  to  the  worth  of  a  compliment  that  flatters  thy 
vanity!  " 

The  artist  rose  to  his  feet  with  an  indignant  impulse. 
But  the  angry  flush  faded  from  his  cheek  as  he  looked  on 
the  countenance  of  his  rebuker.  He  walked  up  to  him,  and 
attempted  to  take  his  hand,  but  Kenelm  snatched  it  scorn- 
fully from  his  grasp. 

"  Poor  friend,"  said  Melville,  sadly  and  soothingly,  "  I 
did  not  think  you  loved  her  thus  deepl}-.  Pardon  me."  He 
drew  a  chair  close  to  Kenelm's,  and  after  a  brief  pause  went 
on  thus,  in  very  earnest  tones  :  "  I  am  not  so  hearties."^,  not 
so  forgetful  of  my  loss,  as  you  suppose.  But  reflect,  you 
have  but  just  learned  of  her  death,  you  arc  under  the  first 
shock  of  grief.  INIore  than  a  year  has  been  given  to  me  for 
gradual  submission  to  the  decree  of  Heaven.  Now  listen  to 
me,  and  try  to  listen  calmly.  I  am  many  years  older  than 
you,  I  ought  to  know  better  the  conditions  on  which  man 
holds  the  tenure  of  life.  Life  is  composite,  many-sided, 
nature  does  not  permit  it  to  be  lastingly  monopolized  by  a 
single  passion,  or,  while  yet  in  the  prime  of  its  strength,  to 
be  lastingly  blighted  by  a  single  sorrow.  Survey  the  great 
mass  of  our  common  race,  engaged  in  the  various  callings, 
some  the  humblest,  some  the  loftiest,  by  which  the  business 
of  the  world  is  carried  on, — can  you  justly  despise  as  heart- 
less the  poor  trader,  or  the  great  statesman,  when,  it  may  be 
but  a  few  days  after  the  loss  of  some  one  nearest  and  dear- 
est to  his  heart,  the  trader  re-cjpens  his  shop,  the  statesman 
reappears  in  his  office  ?  But  in  me,  the  votary  of  art,  in  me 
you  behold  but  the  weakness  of  gratified  vanity — if  I  feel 
joy  in  the  hope  that  my  art  may  triumph,  and  my  country 
may  add  my  name  to  the  list  of  tliose  who  contribute  to  her 
renown — where  and  when  ever  lived  an  artist  not  sustained 
by  that  hope,  in  privation,  in  sickness,  in  the  sorrows  he  must 
share  with  his  kind  ?  Nor  is  this  hope  that  of  a  feminine 
vanity,  a  sicklier  craving  for  applause  :  it  identifies  itself 
with  glorious  services  to  our  land,  to  our  race,  to  the  chil- 
dren of  all  after-time.     Our  art  cannot  triumph,  our  name 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  463 

cannot  live,  unless  we  achieve  a  something  that  tends  to 
beautify  or  ennoble  the  world  in  which  we  accept  the  com- 
mon heritage  of  toil  and  of  sorrow,  in  order,  therefrom,  to 
work  out  for  successive  multitudes  a  recreation  and  a  joy." 

While  the  artist  thus  spoke,  Kenelm  lifted  towards  his 
face  eyes  charged  with  suppressed  tears.  And  the  face, 
kindling  as  the  artist  vindicated  himself  from  the  young 
man's  bitter  charge,  became  touchingly  sweet  in  its  grave 
expression  at  the  close  of  the  not  ignoble  defence. 

"Encugii,"  said  Kenelm,  rising.  ''There  is  a  ring  of 
truth  in  what  you  say.  I  can  conceive  the  artist's,  the  poet's, 
escape  from  this  world  when  all  therein  is  death  and  winter, 
into  the  world  he  creates  and  colors  at  his  will  with  the  hues 
of  summer.  So,  too,  I  can  conceive  how  the  man  whose  life 
is  sternly  fitted  into  the  grooves  of  a  trader's  calling,  or  a 
statesman's  duties,  is  borne  on  by  the  force  of  custom  afar 
from  such  brief  halting-spot  as  a  grave.  But  I  am  no  poet, 
no  artist,  no  trader,  no  statesman  ;  I  have  no  calling,  my  life 
is  fixed  into  no  grooves.     Adieu." 

"  Hold  a  moment.  Not  now,  but  somewhat  later,  ask 
yourself  whether  any  life  can  be  permitted  to  wander  in 
space,  a  monad  detached  from  the  lives  of  others.  Into 
some  groove  or  other,  sooner  or  later,  it  must  settle,  and  be 
borne  on  obedient  to  the  laws  of  nature  and  the  responsibil- 
ity to  God." 


CHAPTER  Xni. 


Kenelm  went  back  alone,  and  with  downcast  looks, 
through  the  desolate  flowerless  garden,  when  at  the  other 
side  of  the  gate  a  light  touch  was  laid  on  his  arm.  He  look- 
ed up,  and  recognized  Mrs.  Cameron. 

"  I  saw  you,"  she  said,  "  from  my  window  coming  to  the 
house,  and  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  here.  I  wished  to 
speak  to  you  alone.     Allow  me  to  walk  beside  you." 

Kenelm  inclined  his  head  assentingly,  but  made  no  an- 
swer. 

They  were  nearly  midway  between  the  cottage  and  the 
burial-ground  when  Mrs  Cameron  resumed,  her  tones  quick 
and  agitated  contrasting  her  habitual  languid  quietude  : 

"  I  have  a  great  weight  on  my  mind  ;  it  ought  not  to  be 
remorse.     I  acted  as  I   thought   in    my   conscience   for  the 


464  KENELM    CHILLINGLY. 

best.  But  oil,  Mr.  Chillingly,  if  I  erred — if  I  judged  wrongly, 
do  say  you  at  least  forgive  me."  She  seized  his  liand,  press- 
ing it  convulsively.  Kenelm  muttered  inaudibly — a  sort  of 
dreary  stupor  had  succeeded  to  the  intense  excitement  of 
grief.     Mrs.  Cameron  went  on  : 

"You  could  not  have  married  Lily — you  know  you  could 
not.  The  secret  of  her  birtli  could  not,  in  honor,  have  been 
concealed  from  your  parents.  They  could  not  have  con- 
sented to  your  marriage  ;  and  even  if  you  had  persisted, 
without  that  consent  and  in  spite  of  that  secret,  to  press 
for  it — even  had  she  been  yours " 

"  Might  she  not  be  living  now  ?"  cried  Kenelm,  fiercely. 

"  No — no  ;  the  secret  nuist  have  come  out.  The  cruel 
world  would  have  discovered  it  ;  it  would  have  reached  her 
ears.  The  shame  of  it  would  have  killed  her.  How  bitter 
then  would  have  been  her  short  interval  of  life  !  As  it  is, 
she  passed  away — resigned  and  happy.  But  I  own  that  I 
did  not,  could  not,  understand  her,  could  not  believe  her 
feelings  for  you  to  be  so  deep.  I  did  think  that,  when 
she  knew  her  own  heart,  she  would  find  that  love  for  her 
guardian  was  its  strongest  afifeccion.  She  assented,  appar- 
ently without  a  pang,  to  become  his  wife  ;  and  she  seemed 
always  so  fond  of  him,  and  what  girl  would  not  be  ?  But  I 
was  mistaken — deceived.  P'rom  the  day  you  saw  her  last, 
she  began  to  fade  away  ;  but  then  Walter  left  a  few  days 
after,  and  I  thought  that  it  was  his  absence  she  mourned. 
She  never  owned  to  me  that  it  was  yours — never  till  too  late 
— too  late— just  when  my  sad  letter  had  summoned  him  back 
only  three  days  before  she  died.  Had  I  known  earlier,  while 
yet  there  was  hope  of  recovery,  I  must  have  written  to  you, 
even  though  the  obstacles  to  your  union  with  her  remained 
the  same.  Oli,  again  I  implore  you,  sav  that  if  I  erred  you 
forgive  me.  She  did,  kissing  me  so  tenderly.  She  did  forgive 
me.     Will  not  you  ?     It  would  have  been  her  wish." 

"  Her  wish  ?  Do  you  think  I  could  disobey  it?  I  know 
not  if  I  have  anything  to  forgive.  If  I  have,  how  could  I 
not  forgive  one  who  loved  her  ?     God  comfort  us    both  ! ". 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  Mrs.  Cameron's  forehead.  The 
poor  woman  threw  her  arms  gratefully,  lovingly  round  him, 
and  burst  into  tears. 

When  she  had  recovered  her  emotion,  she  said  : 

"And  now,  it  is  with  so  much  lighter  a  heart  that  I 
can  fulfil  her  commission  to  you.  But,  before  I  place  this 
in  your  liands,  can  you  make  me  one  promise?     Never  tell 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  465 

Melville  how  she  loved  you.  She  was  so  careful  he  should 
never  guess  that.  And  if  he  knew  it  was  the  thought 
of  union  with  him  which  had  killed  her,  he  would  never 
smile  again." 

"You  would  not  ask  such  a  promise  if  you  could  guess 
how  sacred  from  all  the  world  I  hold  that  secret  that  you 
confide  to  me.  By  that  secret  the  grave  is  changed  into  an 
altar.     Our  bridals  now  are  only  awhile  deferred." 

Mrs.  Cameron  placed  a  letter  in  Kenelm's  hand,  and, 
murmuring  in  accents  broken  by  a  sob,  "  She  gave  it  to  me 
the  day  before  her  last,"  left  him,  and  with  quick  vacillat- 
ing steps  hurried  back  towards  the  cottage.  She  now  un- 
derstood hi?n,  at  last,  too  well  not  to  feel  that  on  opening 
that  letter  he  must  be  alone  with  the  dead. 

It  is  strange  that  we  need  have  so  little  practical  house- 
hold knowledge  of  each  other  to  be  in  love.  Never  till  then 
had  Kenelm's  eyes  rested  upon  Lily's  handwriting.  And 
he  now  gazed  at  the  formal  address  on  the  envelope  with  a 
sort  of  awe.  Unknown  handwriting  coming  to  him  from 
an  unknown  world — delicate,  tremulous  handwriting — liand- 
Avriting  not  of  one  grown  up,  yet  not  of  a  child  who  had  long 
to  live. 

He  turned  the  envelope  over  and  over — not  impatiently 
as  does  the  lover  whose  heart  beats  at  the  sound  of  the  ap- 
proaching footstep,  but  lingeringly,  timidly.  He  would  not 
break  the  seal. 

He  was  now  so  near  the  burial-ground.  Where  should 
the  first  letter  ever  received  from  her — the  sole  letter  he  ever 
could  receive — be  so  reverentially,  lovingly  read,  as  at  her 
grave  ? 

He  walked  on  to  the  burial-ground,  sat  down  by  the  grave, 
broke  the  envelope  ;  a  poor  little  ring,  with  a  poor  little 
single  turquoise,  rolled  out  and  rested  at  his  feet.  The  let- 
ter contained  only  these  words  : 

"  The  ring  comes  back  to  you.  I  could  not  live  to  marry  another.  I 
never  knew  howr  I  loved  you — till,  till  I  began  to  pray  that  you  might  not 
love  me  too  much.     Darling  !  darling  !  good-bye,  darling  ! 

"Lily. 

"  Don't  let  Lion  ever  see  this,  or  ever  Tcnow  what  it  says  to  you.  He  is 
so  good,  and  deserves  to  be  so  happy.  Do  you  remember  the  day  of  the  ring  ? 
Darling  !  darling  !  " 

20* 


466  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Somewhat  more  than  another  year  has  rolled  away.  It  is 
early  spring  in  London.  The  trees  in  the  parks  and  squares 
are  budding  into  leaf  and  blossom.  Leopold  Travers  has 
had  a  brief  but  serious  conversation  with  his  daughter,  and 
is  now  gone  forth  on  horseback.  Handsome  and  graceful 
still,  Leopold  Travers  when  in  London  is  pleased  to  find 
himself  scarcely  less  the  fashion  with  the  young  than  he 
was  when  himself  in  youth.  He  is  now  riding  along  the 
banks  of  the  Serpentine,  no  one  better  mounted,  better 
dressed,  better  looking,  or  talking  with  greater  iluency  on 
the  topics  which  interest  his  companions. 

Cecilia  is  in  the  smaller  drawing-room;  which  is  e:<clus- 
ively  appropriated  to  her  use — alone  Avith  Lady  Glenalvon. 
Lady  Glenalvon. — "I  own,  my  dear,  dear  Cecilia,  that 
I  range  myself  at  last  on  the  side  of  your  father.  How 
earnestly  at  one  time  I  had  hoped  that  Kenelm  Chillingly 
might  woo  and  win  the  bride  that  seemed  to  me  most  fitted 
to  adorn  and  to  cheer  his  life,  I  need  not  say.  But  when  at 
Exmundham  he  asked  me  to  befriend  his  choice  of  another, 
to  reconcile  his  mother  to  that  choice, — evidently  not  a 
suitable  one, — I  gave  him  up.  And  though  that  affair  is  at 
an  end,  he  seems  little  likely  ever  to  settle  down  to  practi- 
cal duties  and  domestic  habits,  an  idle  wanderer  over  the 
face  of  the  earth,  only  heard  of  in  remote  places  and  with 
strange  companions.  Perhaps  he  may  never  return  to 
England." 

Cecilia. — "He  is  in  England  now,  and  in  London." 

Lady  Glenalvon. — "  You  amaze  me !  Who  told  you 
so?" 

Cecilia. —  "  His  father,  who  is  with  him.  Sir  Peter  called 
yesterday,  and  spoke  to  me  so  kindly."  Cecilia  here  turned 
aside  her  face  to  conceal  the  tears  that  had  started  to  her 
eyes. 

Lady  Glenalvon. — "  Did  Mr.  Travers  see  Sir  Peter  ?  " 

Cecilia. — "Yes  ;  and  I  think  it  was  something  that  passed 
between  them  which  made  my  father  speak  to  me — for  the 
first  time — almost  sternly." 

Lady  Glenalvon. — "  In  urging  Gordon  Chillingly's 
suit?" 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  467 

Cecilia. —"Commanding  me  to  reconsider  my  rejection 
of  it.     He  has  contrived  to  fascinate  my  father." 

Lady  Glenalvon. — "  So  he  has  me.  Of  course  you  might 
choose  among  other  candidates  for  your  hand  one  of  much 
higher  wordly  rank,  of  much  larger  fortune  ;  yet,  as  you 
have  already  rejected  them,  Gordon's  merits  become  still 
more  entitled  to  a  fair  hearing.  He  has  already  leapt  into 
a  position  that  mere  rank  and  mere  wealth  cannot  attain. 
Men  of  all  parties  speak  highly  of  his  parliamentary  abilities. 
He  is  already  marked  in  public  opinion  as  a  coming  man 
— a  future  minister  of  the  highest  grade.  He  has  youth  and 
good  looks,  his  moral  character  is  without  a  blemish,  yet 
his  manners  are  so  free  from  affected  austerity,  so  frank,  so 
genial.  Any  woman  might  be  pleased  with  his  companion- 
ship ;  and  you,  with  your  intellect,  your  culture  ;  you,  so 
born  for  high  station  ;  you  of  all  women  might  be  proud  to 
partake  the  anxieties  of  his  career  and  the  rewards  of  his 
ambition." 

Cecilia  (clasping  her  hands  tightly  together). — "  I  can- 
not, I  cannot.  He  may  be  all  you  say— I  know  nothing 
against  Mr.  Chillingly  Gordon — but  my  whole  nature  is  an- 
tagonistic to  his  ;  and  even  were  it  not  so " 

She  stopped  abruptly,  a  deep  blush  warming  up  her  fair 
face,  and  retreating  to  leave  it  coldly  pale. 

Lady  Glenalvon  (tenderly  kissing  her). — "You  have 
not,  then,  even  yet  conquered  the  first  maiden  fancy  ;  the 
ungrateful  one  is  still  remembered?" 

Cecilia  bowed  her  head  on  her  friend's  breast,  and  mur- 
mured imploringly,  "  Don't  speak  against  him,  he  has  been 
so  unhappy.      How  much  he  must  have  loved  !  " 

"  But  it  is  not  you  whom  he  loved." 

"  Something  here,  something  at  my  heart,  tells  mc  that 
he  will  love  me  yet  ;  and  if  not,  I  am  contented  to  be  hi's 
friend." 


CHAPTER  XV. 


While  the  conversation  just  related  took  place  between 
Cecilia  and  Lady  Glenalvon,  Gordon  Chillingly  was  seated 
alone  with  Mivers  in  the  comfortable  apartment  of  the  cyn- 
ical old  bachelor.  Gordon  had  breakfasted  with  his  kins- 
man, but  that  meal  was  long  over  ;  the  two  men  having  found 


468  KENELM   CHILLINGLY. 

much  to  talk  about  on  matters  very  interesting  to  the  younger, 
nor  without  interest  to  the  elder  one. 

It  is  true  that  Chillingly  Gordon  had,  within  the  very 
short  space  of  time  that  had  elapsed  since  his  entrance  into 
the  House  of  Commons,  achieved  one  of  those  reputations 
which  mark  out  a  man  for  early  admission  into  the  progres- 
sive career  of  office — not  a  very  showy  reputation,  but  a  very 
solid  one.  He  had  none  of  the  gifts  of  the  genuine  orator, 
no  enthusiasm,  no  imagination,  no  imprudent  bursts  of  fiery 
words  from  a  passionate  heart.  But  he  had  all  the  gifts  of 
an  exceedingly  telling  speaker — a  clear,  metallic  voice  ;  well- 
bred,  appropriate  action,  not  less  dignified  for  being  some- 
what too  quiet ;  readiness  for  extempore  replies  ;  industry 
and  method  for  prepared  expositions  of  principle  or  fact. 
But  his  principal  merit  with  the  chiefs  of  the  assembly  was 
in  the  strong  good  sense  and  worldly  tact  which  made  him 
a  safe  speaker.  For  this  merit  he  was  largely  indebted  to 
his  frequent  conferences  with  Chillingly  Mivers.  That  gen- 
tleman, owing  to  his  social  qualities  or  to  the  influence  of 
"The  Londoner"  on  public  opinion,  enjoyed  an  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  chiefs  of  all  parties,  and  was  up  to  his 
ears  in  the  wisdom  of  the  world.  "  Nothing,"  he  would  say, 
"hurts  a  young  Parliamentary  speaker  like  violence  in  opin- 
ion, one  way  or  the  other.  Shun  it.  Always  allow  that 
much  may  be  said  on  both  sides.  When  the  chiefs  of  your 
own  side  suddenly  adopt  a  violence,  you  can  go  Aviih  them 
or  against  them,  according  as  best  suits  your  own  book." 

"So,"  said  Mivers,  reclined  on  his  sofa,  and  approaching 
the  end  of  his  second  trabuco  (he  never  allowed  himself 
more  than  two),  "so  I  think  we  have  pretty  well  settled  the 
tone  you  must  take  in  your  speech  to-night.  It  is  a  great 
occasion." 

"  True.  It  is  \\\c  fint  time  in  which  the  debate  has  been 
arranged  so  that  I  may  speak  at  ten  o'clock  or  later.  That 
in  itself  is  a  great  leap  ;  and  it  is  a  Cabinet  minister  whom 
I  am  to  answer — luckily,  he  is  a  very  dull  fellows  Do  you 
think  I  might  hazard  a  joke— at  least  a  witticism  ?" 

"At  his  expense?  Decidedly  not.  Though  his  office 
compels  him  to  introduce  this  measure,  he  was  by  no  means 
in  its  favor  when  it  was  discussed  in  the  Cabinet ;  and  though, 
as  you  say,  he  is  dull,  it  is  precisely  that  sort  of  dullness 
which  is  essential  to  the  formation  of  every  respectable  Cabi- 
net. Joke  at  ///;«,  indeed  !  Learn  that  gentle  dullness  never 
loves  a  joke — at  its  own  expense.     Vain  man  !  seize  the  oc- 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  469 

casion  which  your  blame  of  his  measure  affords  you  to  secure 
his  praise  of  yourself  ;  compliment  him.  Enough  of  poli- 
tics. It  never  does  to  think  too  much  over  what  one  has 
already  decided  to  say.  Brooding  over  it,  one  may  become 
too  much  in  earnest,  and  commit  an  indiscretion.  So  Kenelm 
has  come  back  ? " 

"Yes.  I  heard  that  news  last  night,  at  White's,  from 
Travers.     Sir  Peter  had  called  on  Travers." 

"  Travers  still  favors  your  suit  to  the  heiress  ?  " 

"  More,  I  think,  than  ever.  Success  in  Parliament  has 
great  effect  on  a  man  who  has  success  in  fashion  and  respects 
the  opinion  of  clubs.  But  last  night  he  was  unusually  cor- 
dial. Between  you  and  me,  I  think  he  is  a  little  afraid  that 
Kenelm  may  yet  be  my  rival.  I  gathered  that  from  a  hint 
he  let  fall  of  the  unwelcome  nature  of  Sir  Peter's  talk  to 
him." 

"  Why  has  Travers  conceived  a  dislike  to  poor  Kenelm  ? 
He  seemed  partial  enough  to  him  once." 

"Ay,  but  not  as  a  son-in-law,  even  before  I  had  a  chance 
of  becoming  so.  And  when,  after  Kenelm  appeared  at  Ex- 
mundham  while  Travers  was  staying  there,  Travers  learned, 
I  suppose  from  Lady  Chillingly,  that  Kenelm  had  fallen  in 
love  with  and  wanted  to  marry  some  other  girl,  who  it  seems 
rejected  him,  and  still  more  when  he  heard  that  Kenelm  had 
been  subsequently  travelling  on  the  Continent  in  company 
with  a  low-lived  fellow,  the  drunken,  riotovis  son  of  a  farrier, 
you  may  well  conceive  how  so  polished  and  sensible  a  man  as 
Leopold  Travers  would  dislike  the  idea  of  giving  his  daughter 
to  one  so  little  likely  to  make  an  agreeable  son-in-law.  Bah  ! 
I  have  no  fear  of  Kenelm.  By  the  way,  did  Sir  Peter  say  if 
Kenelm  had  quite  recovered  his  health  ?  He  was  at  death's 
door  some  eighteen  months  ago,  when  Sir  Peter  and  Lady 
Chillingly  were  summoned  to  town  by  the  doctors." 

"  My  dear  Gordon,  I  fear  there  is  no  chance  of  your  suc- 
cession to  Exmundham.  Sir  Peter  says  that  his  wandering 
Hercules  is  as  stalwart  as  ever,  and  more  equable  in  tempera- 
ment, more  taciturn  and  grave— in  short,  less  odd.  But  when 
you  say  you  have  no  fear  of  Kenelm's  rivalry,  do  you  mean 
only  as  Cecilia  Travers  ?  " 

"  Neither  as  to  that  nor  as  to  anything  in  life  ;  and  as  to 
the  succession  to  Exmundham,  it  is  his  to  leave  as  he  pleases, 
and  I  have  cause  to  think  he  would  never  leave- it  tome. 
More  likely  to  Parson  John  or  the  parson's  son — or  why  not 
to  yourself?     I  often  think  that  for  the  prizes  immediately 


470  KEN  ELM    CHILLINGLY. 

set  before  my  ambition  I  am  better  off  without  land  :  land  is 
a  great  obfuscator." 

"  Humph,  there  is  some  truth  in  that.  Yet  the  fear  of 
land  and  obfuscation  does  not  seem  to  operate  against  your 
suit  to  Cecilia  Travers  ? " 

"  Her  father  is  likely  enough  to  live  till  I  maybe  con- 
tented to  '  rest  and  be  thankful '  in  the  upper  house  ;  and  I 
should  not  like  to  be  a  landless  peer." 

"You  are  right  there  ;  but  I  should  tell  you  that,  now 
Kenclm  has  come  back,  Sir  Peter  has  set  his  heart  on  his 
son's  being  your  rival." 

"For  Cecilia?" 

"  Perhaps  ;  but  certainly  for  Parliamentary  reputation. 
The  senior  member  for  tlie  county  means  to  retire,  and  Sir 
Peter  has  been  urged  to  allow  his  son  to  he  brought  forward 
— from  what  I  hear,  with  the  certainty  of  success." 

"What  !  in  spite  of  that  wonderful  speech  of  his  on  com- 
ing of  age  ?" 

"  Pooh  !  that  is  now  understood  to  have  been  but  a  bad 
joke  on  the  new  ideas  and  their  organs,  including  '  The 
Londoner.'  But  if  Kenelm  does  come  into  the  House,  it  will 
not  be  on  your  side  of  the  question  ;  and  unless  I  greatly 
overrate  his  abilities — which  very  likely  I  do — he  will  not  be 
a  rival  to  despise.  Except,  indeed,  that  he  may  have  one 
fault  which  in  the  present  day  would  be  enough  to  unfit  him 
for  public  life." 

"  And  what  is  that  fault  ? " 

"  Treason  to  the  blood  of  the  Chillinglys.  This  is  the  age, 
in  England,  when  one  cannot  be  too  much  of  a  Chillingly.  I 
fear  that  if  Kenelm  does  become  bewildered  by  a  political 
abstraction— call  it  no  matter  what,  say,  '  love  of  his  coun- 
try,' or  some  such  old-fashioned  crotchet — I  fear — I  greatly 
fear — that  he  may  be — in  earnest." 


CHAPTER  THE  LAST. 


It  was  a  field  night  in  the  House  of  Commons — an  ad- 
journed debate,  opened  by  George  Belvoir,  who  had  been, 
the  last  two  years,  very  slowly  creeping  on  in  the  favor,  or 
ratiier  the  indulgence,  of  the  House,  and  more  than  justify- 
ing Kenelm's  prediction  of   his   career.     Heir    to    a    noble 


KEN-ELM  CHILLINGLY.  471 

name  and  vast  estates,  extremely  hard-working,  very  well  in- 
formed, it  was  impossible  that  he  should  not  creep  on.  That 
night  he  spoke  sensibly  enough,  assisting  his  memory  by 
frequent  references  to  his  notes  ;  listened  to  courteously,  and 
greeted  with  a  faint  "  Hear  !  hear  !  "  of  relief  when  he  had 
done. 

Then  the  House  gradually  thinned  till  nine  o'clock,  at 
which  hour  it  became  very  rapidly  crowded.  A  Cabinet  min- 
ister had  solemnly  risen,  deposited  on  the  table  before  him  a 
formidable  array  of  printed  papers,  including  a  corpulent 
blue  book.  Leaning  his  arm  on  the  red  box,  he  commenced 
with  this  awe-compelling  sentence  : 

"  Sir, — I  join  issue  with  the  right  honorable  gentleman 
opposite.  He  says  this  is  not  raised  as  a  party  question.  I 
deny  it.   Her  Majesty's  Government  are  put  upon  their  trial." 

Here  there  were  cheers,  so  loud,  and  so  rarely  greeting  a 
speech  from  that  Cabinet  minister,  that  he  was  put  out,  and 
had  much  to  "  hum  "  and  to  "  ha,"  before  he  could  recover 
the  thread  of  his  speech.  Then  he  went  on,  with  unbroken 
but  lethargic  fluency;  read  long  extracts  from  the  public 
papers,  inflicted  a  whole  page  from  the  blue  book,  wound  up 
with  a  peroration  of  respectable  platitudes,  glanced  at  the 
clock,  saw  that  he  had  completed  the  hour  which  a  Cabinet 
minister  who  does  not  profess  to  be  oratorical  is  expected  to 
speak,  but  not  to  exceed,  and  sat  down. 

Up  rose  a  crowd  of  eager  faces,  from  which  the  Speaker, 
as  previously  arranged  with  the  party  whips,  selected  one — 
a  young  face,  hardy,  intelligent,  emotionless. 

I  need  not  say  that  it  was  the  face  of  Chillingly  Gordon. 

His  position  that  night  was  one  that  required  dexterous 
management  and  delicate  tact.  He  habitually  supported  the 
Government  ;  his  speeches  had  been  hitherto  in  their  favor. 
On  this  occasion  he  differed  from  the  Government.  The 
difference  was  known  to  the  chiefs  of  the  opposition,  and 
hence  the  arrangement  of  the  whips,  that  he  should  speak 
for  the  first  time  after  ten  o'clock,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
reply  to  a  Cabinet  minister.  It  is  a  position  in  which  a 
young  party  man  makes  or  mars  his  future.  Chillingly 
Gordon  spoke  from  the  third  row  behind  the  Government  ; 
he  had  been  duly  cautioned  by  Mivers  not  to  affect  a  con- 
ceited independence,  or  an  adhesion  to  "  violence  "  in  ultra- 
liberal  opinions,  by  seating  himself  below  the  gangway. 
Speaking  thus  amid  the  rank  and  file  of  the  Ministerial  sup- 
porters, any  opinion  at  variance  with  the  mouth-pieces  of  the 


472 


KENELM   Clf/LLIXGL  V. 


Treasury  bench  would  be  sure  to  produce  a  more  effective 
sensation  than  if  delivered  from  the  ranks  of  the  mutinous 
Baslii  Bazouks  divided  by  the  gangway  from  better  dis- 
ciplined forces.  His  first  brief  sentences  enthralled  the 
House,  conciliated  the  Ministerial  side,  kept  the  opposition 
side  in  suspense.  The  whole  speech  was,  indeed,  felicit- 
ously adroit,  and  especially  in  this,  that  while  in  opposition 
to  the  Government  as  a  whole,  it  expressed  the  opinions  of 
a  powerful  section  of  the  Cabinet,  which  though  at  present 
a  minority,  vet,  being  the  most  enamored  of  a  New  Idea,  the 
progress  of  the  age  would  probably  render  a  safe  investment 
for  the  confidence  which  honest  Gordon  reposed  in  its 
chance  of  beating  its  colleagues. 

It  was  not,  however,  till  Gordon  had  concluded,  that  the 
cheers  of  his  audience — impulsive  and  hearty  as  are  the 
cheers  of  that  assembly  when  the  evidence  of  intellect  is  un- 
mistakable— made  manifest  to  the  Gallery  and  the  reporters 
the  full  effect  of  the  speech  he  had  delivered.  The  chief  of 
the  opposition  whispered  to  his  next  neighbor,  "  I  wish  we 
could  get  that  man."  The  Cabinet  minister  whom  Gordon 
had  answered — more  pleased  with  a]~)ersonal  compliment  to 
himself  than  displeased  with  an  attack  on  the  measure  his 
office  had  compelled  him  to  advocate — whispered  to  his  chief, 
"  That  is  a  man  we  must  not  lose." 

Two  gentlemen  in  the  Speaker's  gallery,  who  had  sat 
there  from  the  opening  of  the  debate,  now  quitted  their 
places.  Coming  into  the  lobby,  they  found  themselves  com- 
mingled with  a  crowd  of  members  who  had  also  quitted  their 
seats,  after  Gordon's  speech,  in  order  to  discuss  its  merits, 
as  they  gathered  round  the  refreshment-table  for  oranges  or 
soda-water.  Among  them  was  George  Belvoir,  who  on 
sight  of  the  younger  of  the  two  gentlemen  issuing  from  the 
Speaker's  gallery,  accosted  him  with  friendly  greeting  : 

"  Ha  !  Chillingly,  how  are  you  ?  Did  not  know  you  were 
in  town.  Been  here  all  the  evening?  Yes  ;  very  good  de- 
bate.     How  did  you  like  Gordon's  speech  ?" 

"  I  liked  yours  much  better." 

"Mine '."'cried  George,  very  much  flattered  and  very 
much  surprised.  "Oh  !  mine  was  a  mere  humdrum  nffair, 
a  plain  statement  of  the  reasons  for  the  vote  I  should  give. 
And  Gordon's  was  anything  but  that.  You  did  not  like  his 
opinions  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  his  opinions  are.  But  I  did  not  like 
his  ideas." 


KENELM   CHILLINGLY.  473 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  you.     What  ideas?" 

"  The  new  ones  ;  by  which  it  is  shown  how  rapidly  a 
great  State  can  be  made  small." 

Here  Mr.  Belvoir  was  taken  aside  by  a  brother  member, 
on  an  important  matter  to  be  brought  before  the  committee 
on  salmon-fisheries,  on  which  they  both  served  ;  and  Ken- 
elm,  with  his  companion,  Sir  Peter,  threadedhis  way  through 
the  crowded  lobby,  and  disappeared.  Emerging  into  the 
broad  space,  with  its  lofty  clock-tower,  Sir  Peter  halted,  and, 
pointing  towards  the  old  Abbey,  half  in  shadow,  half  in 
light,  under  the  tranquil  moonbeams,  said  : 

"  It  tells  much  for  the  duration  of  a  people,  when  it  ac- 
cords with  the  instinct  of  immortality  in  a  man  ;  when  an 
honored  tomb  is  deemed  recompense  for  the  toils  and  dan- 
gers of  a  noble  life.  How  much  of  the  history  of  England 
Nelson  summed  up  in  the  simple  words,  '  Victory  or  West- 
minster Abbey  ! '  " 

"Admirably  expressed,  my  dear  father,"  said  Kenelm, 
briefly. 

"  I  agree  with  your  remark,  which  I  overheard,  on  Gor- 
don's speech,"  resumed  Sir  Peter.  "  It  was  wonderfully 
clever  ;  yet  I  should  have  been  very  sorry  to  hear  you  speak 
it.  It  is  notbv  such  sentiments  that  Nelsons  become  great. 
If  such  sentiments  should  ever  become  national,  the  cry  will 
not  be  '  Victory  or  Westminster  Abbey  ! '  but  '  Defeat  and 
the  Three  per  Cents  ! '  " 

Pleased  with  his  own  unwonted  animation,  and  with  the 
sympathizing  half-smile  on  his  son's  taciturn  lips.  Sir  Peter 
then  proceeded  more  immediately  to  the  subjects  which 
pressed  upon  his  heart.  Gordon's  success  in  Parliament, 
Gordon's  suit  to  Cecilia  Travers,  favored,  as  Sir  Peter  had 
learned,  by  her  father,  rejected  as  yet  by  herself,  were  some- 
how inseparably  mixed  up  in  Sir  Peter's  mind  and  his  words, 
as  he  sought  to  kindle  his  son's  emulation.  He  dwelt  on 
the  obligations  which  a  country  imposed  on  its  citizens,  es- 
pecially on  the  young  and  vigorous  generation  to  which  the 
destinies  of  those  to  follow  were  intrusted  ;  and  with  these 
stern  obligations  he  combined  all  the  cheering  and  tender 
associations  which  an  English  public  man  connects  with  an 
English  home  :  the  wife  with  a  smile  to  soothe  the  cares,  and  a 
mind  to  share  the  aspirations,  of  a  life  that  must  go  through 
labor  to  achieve  renown  ;  thus,  in  all  he  said,  binding  together, 
as  if  they  could  not  be  disparted,  Ambition  and  Cecilia. 

His  son  did  not  interrupt  him  by  a  word  :  Sir  Peter  in 


474  KENELM  CHILLINGLY. 

his  eagerness  not  noticing  that  Kenelm  had  drawn  him  aside 
from  the  direct  thorouglifare,  and  liad  now  made  halt  in  the 
middle  of  Westminster  Bridge,  bending  over  the  massive 
parapet  and  gazing  abstractedly  xipon  the  waves  of  the  star- 
lit river.  On  the  right  the  stately  length  of  the  people's 
legislative  palace,  so  new  in  its  date,  so  elaborately  in  each 
detail  ancient  in  its  form,  stretching  on  towards  the  lowly 
and  jagged  roofs  of  penury  and  crime,  Well  might  these 
be  so  near  to  the  halls  of  a  people's  legislative  palace  ; — 
near  to  the  heart  of  every  legislator  for  a  people  must  be 
the  mighty  problem  how  to  increase  a  people's  splendor 
and  its  virtue,  and  how  to  diminish  its  penury  and  its  crime. 

"  How  strange  it  is,"  said  Kenelm,  still  bending  over  the 
parapet,  "  that  throughout  all  my  desultory  wanderings  I 
.  have  ever  been  attracted  towards  the  sight  and  the  sound 
of  running  waters,  even  those  of  the  humblest  rill !  Of  what 
thoughts,  of  what  dreams,  of  what  memories,  coloring  i.he 
history  of  my  past,  the  waves  of  the  humblest  rill  could 
speak,  were  the  waves  themselves  not  such  supreme  phil- 
osophers—  roused  indeed  on  their  surface,  vexed  by  a  check 
to  their  own  course,  but  so  indifferent  to  all  that  makes 
gloom  or  death  to  the  mortals  who  think  and  dream  and  feel 
beside  their  banks." 

"  Bless  me,"  said  Sir  Peter  to  himself,  "the  boy  has  got 
back  to  his  old  vein  of  humors  and  melancholies.  He  has 
not  heard  a  word  I  have  been  saying.  Travers  is  right. 
He  Avill  never  do  anything  in  life.  Why  did  I  christen  him 
Kenelm?  he  might  as  well  have  been  christened  Peter." 
Still,  loath  to  own  that  his  eloquence  had  been  expended  in 
vain,  and  that  the  wish  of  his  heart  was  doomed  to  expire 
disappointed.  Sir  Peter  said  aloud,  "You  have  not  listened 
to  what  1  said  ;  Kenelm,  you  grieve  me." 

"  Grieve  you  !  you  !  do  not  say  that,  father,  dear  father. 
Listen  to  you  !  Every  word  you  have  said  has  simk  into 
the  deepest  deep  of  my  heart.  Pardon  my  foolish  purpose- 
less snatch  of  talk  to  myself :  it  is  but  my  way,  only  my 
way,  dear  father  !  " 

"  Boy,  boy,"  cried  Sir  Peter,  with  tears  in  his  voice,  "  if 
you  could  get  out  of  those  odd  ways  of  yours  I  should  be  so 
thankful.  But  if  you  cannot,  nothing  yon  can  do  shall 
grieve  me.  Only,  let  me  say  this  :  running  waters  have  had 
a  great  charm  for  you.  With  a  humble  rill  you  associate 
thoughts,  dreams,  memories  in  your  past.  But  now  you 
halt  by  the  stream  of  the  mighty  river — befoi'e  you  the  sen- 


KENELM  CHILLINGLY.  475 

ate  of  an  empire  wider  than  Alexander's,  behind  you  the 
market  of  a  commerce  to  which  that  of  Tyre  was  a  pitiful 
trade.  Look  farther  down,  those  squalid  hovels,  how  much 
there  to  redeem  or  to  remedy  ;  and  out  of  sight,  but  not 
very  distant,  the  nation's  Walhalla  :  '  Victory  or  Westminster 
Abbey  ! '  The  humble  rill  has  witnessed  your  past.  Has 
the  mighty  river  no  effect  on  your  future  ?  The  rill  keeps 
no  record  of  your  past,  shall  the  river  keep  no  record  of 
your  future  ?  Ah,  boy,  boy,  I  see  you  are  dreaming  still — 
no  use  talking.     Let  us  go  home." 

"  I  was  not  dreaming  ;  I  was  telling  myself  that  the  time 
had  come  to  replace  the  old  Kenelm  with  the  new  ideas,  by  a 
new  Kenelm  with  the  Ideas  of  Old.  Ah  !  perhaps  we  must 
— at  whatever  cost  to  ourselves, — we  must  go  through  the 
romance  of  life  before  we  clearly  detect  what  is  grand  in  its 
realities.  I  can  no  longer  lament  that  I  stand  estranged 
from  the  objects  and  pursuits  of  my  race.  I  have  learned 
how  much  I  have  with  them  in  common.  I  have  known 
love  ;  I  have  known  sorrow." 

Kenelm  paused  a  moment,  only  a  moment,  then  lifted 
the  head  which,  during  that  pause,  had  drooped,  and  stood 
erect  at  the  full  height  of  his  stature  ;  startling  his  father 
by  the  change  that  had  passed  over  his  face  ;  lip — eye — his 
whole  aspect  eloquent  with  a  resolute  enthusiasm,  too  grave 
to  be  the  flash  of  a  passing  moment., 

"Ay,  ay,"  he  said,  "Victory  or  Westminster  Abbey! 
The  world  is  a  battle-field  in  which  the  worst  wounded  are 
the  deserters,  stricken  as  they  seek  to  fly,  and  hushing  the 
groans  that  would  betray  the  secret  of  their  inglorious  hidr- 
ing-place.  The  pains  of  wounds  received  in  the  thick  of  the 
fight  is  scarcely  felt  in  the  joy  of  service  to  some  honored 
cause,  and  is  amply  atoned  by  the  reverence  for  noble  scars. 
My  choice  is  made.  Not  that  of  deserter,  that  of  soldier  in 
the  ranks." 

"  It  will  not  be  long  before  you  rise  from  the  ranks,  my 
boy,  if  you  hold  fast  to  the  Idea  of  Old,  symbolized  in  the 
English  battle-cry  :  '  Victory  or  Westminster  Abbey.'  " 

So  saying,  Sir  Peter  took  his  son's  arm,  leaning  on  it 
proudly  :  and  so,  into  the  crowded  thoroughfares,  from  the 
halting-place  on  the  modern  bridge  that  spans  the  legendary 
river,  passes  the  Man  of  the  Young  Generation  to  fates  be- 
yond the  verge  of  the  horizon  to  wliich  the  eyes  of  my  gene^ 
ration  must  limit  their  wistful  gaze. 

THE   END. 


"icA- 


*^^^ 


*^^ 


^/;r.^^!^^-^^<' 


^^*^^- 


^*^^P^ 


wm 


^^ 


^Mi^ 


m 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


'^ 


mmi 


<m^^:mmd         ^^    000  402  840    3  a 


mm 


'W&M^^^- 


^« 


>ajfc#' 


■^m 


^Mrn^- 


r;•-.i^-^«v; 


K^Si.c4>SB^ 


m0H 


mm 


3*; 


:^iM: 


m 


i^ 


■1^; 


^";*'^-<^fef^ifc3»(B', 


;rm?J^'- 


i 


I 


